#once again i get the idea for something and then stay hunched over unmoving in this one spot for 3 hours bc i gotta finish it

[bloominglegumes]

so g1 megop in my opinion is, more than anything else, the background romantic relationship in some type of bad sitcom that never gets resolved

[jackrrabbit]

Spoiled Rotten /// Overhaul x f!Reader (18+)

Request: What if Overhaul fucks spoiled rich reader because her dad owes the yakuza money and in exchange Kai takes the daughter as a form of payment using her as his personal stress doll whenever and wherever he wants making her into his perfect little doll

A/N: While I was writing this my roommate asked if I was okay bc cause I kept stopping to fan myself and blush lmaooooo god I’m such a brat. I did change the concept up a bit, hope that’s fine!

This is dedicated not only to the OG requester but also to everyone who read the excerpt I posted a while back and told me they couldn’t wait to see the finished product!! Love you guys ❤️

Tags/warnings: threats, dubcon/coercion, dom/sub, brat taming, degradation, exhibitionism, restraints, mentions of forced prostitution, verbal & physical harassment, kidnapping, kinda breath play?, long

The first thing you notice when you come to are voices. Multiple people talking to each other, speech overlapping in patterns you can’t make out. They’re quiet—not whispering for your sake, but quiet because you’re still half knocked-out and you can barely hear.

The second thing you notice is the pounding in your head and the lingering smell of something sweet spread over your nose and mouth.

The third thing you notice is the fact that when you try to blink your eyes open, your lashes brush against something soft and dark. You’re blindfolded…and gagged, and your hands feel like they’re cuffed behind your back. From what you can sense around you, it seems like you’re hunched in a kneeling position with your cheek flattened against the floor and your bare feet tucked under your backside.

At least you’re still in your nightgown. You can feel the frilly silk of it, a useless barrier between your skin and the cool air, and it reminds you of how you got here in the first place.

A loud noise in the night. Your father’s voice pleading. A heavy thump. The door to your bedroom banging open and a strange man holding you down to your bed…lifting a sweet-smelling rag to your mouth…telling you to “take a deeeeep breath, princess.”

“Hey, I think she’s waking up.”

An invisible hand fists itself in your hair and you whine in pain as your upper body is lifted off the floor. Once you’re properly upright, you hear squeaking, shoes against concrete, and the heat and breath and presence of someone behind you. Something rustles at the back of your head—you’re too scared to move so you stay still—and then the blindfold is being lifted off your face.

Once it’s gone, you have to blink for a moment even despite the low light of the dingy room where you’ve…apparently…been kidnapped. By the freaking yakuza. And for some reason, they’re all wearing bird-beak masks.

You close your eyes, almost wishing they hadn’t taken the blindfold off. You’d prefer to live in blissful ignorance of how decidedly unclean the floor is. How dare they let your face touch it? What happened to honor among thieves?

“Do you know why you’re here?”

Against your will, your eyes flick up to the speaker. He’s the only one sitting, and somehow that gives him a position of power among the others. The leader?

Unsettling golden eyes rest on yours, and you realize he’s waiting for your answer, so you slowly move your head from side to side.

“Didn’t know about daddy’s bad habits, huh?” This time the person speaking is behind you, the one who untied your blindfold, a thin man with lank, greasy blond hair. He’s the one who drugged me, you remember in a surge of panic, and you try to stand up away from him only for him to step on the chain that connects your handcuffs, jerking you back and pinning you—painfully—to the floor.

“Careful, Setsuno. I told you not to leave marks. Let her talk.”

“Got it, boss.” The blond—Setsuno—fumbles at the back of your head and then he’s pulling the gag out of your mouth.

You open and close your mouth a few times to stretch out the stiff muscles. “Oh. My. God. Was that polyester you just took out of my mouth? Do you have any idea how bad synthetics are for sensitive skin? I’m totally going to break out.”

A hush falls over the little room. You could hear a pin drop.

“…Are you complaining about the quality of the fabric we gagged you with?” the leader asks after a second.

“You may be yakuza, but you don’t have to act like savages,” you reply primly, aligning your knees together and sending a proud look off to the side.

“Ohh…little princess deserves better, does she?” Setsuno coos. He edges closer to rub his cheek against yours and laughs when you cringe away from him. “Boss, you shoulda seen her bedroom. All pink and frilly, looked like royalty lived there. Bet they treat you like a real princess at home, huh? No wonder your daddy’s in debt.”

“Daddy isn’t—“

“Your father…took out loans from my gang. My men came last night to collect,” the leader says, drumming his fingers over the armrest of his chair impatiently.

He’s wearing plastic gloves. Why is he wearing plastic gloves? Immediately your mind is spinning, imagining all the different gruesome possibilities of what they’re going to do to you. “That’s ridiculous. My daddy doesn’t need to borrow money—“

“Clearly he does, because it looks like he pissed it all away on his daughter.” The leader’s eyes are cold enough to make you shiver—although maybe that’s just the icy temperature of the floor soaking through your nightgown.

“He had a couple payments overdue, so we stopped by to ask nicely for him to pay up,” Setsuno says, resting his chin on your shoulder. “Didn’t find too many valuables in your house, but then we got our hands on a real treasure.”

“Don’t touch me—“

“You don’t seem to understand the position you’re in,” the leader says. “When I made my contract with your father, he understood that obligations like these are inherited. Since he can’t pay his debt, you’re going to be working it off in his place.”

Working it off? You swallow. Somehow you don’t think he’s talking about your little part-time job as a receptionist at your daddy’s company. “You can’t make me do that.”

“I’m not sure you’re getting the gist, princess,” Setsuno hums. “What we’re gonna do is we’re gonna put you in a room, and then men are gonna give us money, and then we’ll let those men fuck you. All that money’s gonna go toward paying what your daddy borrowed. Sound good?”

For the first time since you can remember, you’re shocked speechless. They’re going to…what? But you’re a quick thinker, and instead of letting these filthy, awful gangters boss you around, you raise your chin haughtily to look directly into the leader’s eyes. “I don’t think so. If Daddy’s the one who got himself in debt, you can make him whore himself out to pay it back. You can’t hold me responsible for something he’s done.”

Another brief silence, and then you hear a whistle echo out from the corner of the room (and you try not to look toward it, reminding yourself that this can only get worse if they know how scared you are). “She’s got a mouth on her, Overhaul,” someone says.

Overhaul. So the leader’s name is Overhaul. How ridiculous; it sounds like a villain’s name.

“Aww, princess,” Setsuno says, and once again his voice is too close for your comfort. “Little spoiled princess doesn’t know how to shut her mouth and suck it up when things don’t go her way? Well…you’ll learn.”

You don’t want to know what he’s talking about, although if you thought about it for more than a second it’d be obvious. You suck in a harsh breath and the cool, damp air stings against your dry throat. “You can’t just make me—“

“Ohh, I think we can. See, if your daddy’s been spending all of the Shie Hassaikai’s money on his precious daughter, don’t you think you owe a little too? Like, this dress—“ you jump as Setsuno’s hand tugs on the thin, floaty silk— “was bought with Overhaul’s money, so it belongs to him, right?”

You keep quiet, not wanting to prompt him to go further, but when his hands stroke up over your waist to grope your breasts in full view of everyone else in the room, you don’t really have to guess.

“And, y’know, your daddy’s been keeping you nice and healthy with Overhaul’s cash, making sure you grow up into such a pretty girl…” Setsuno’s voice is a purr in your ear as his hands squeeze your tits almost lovingly, then pinch your nipples through the fabric. “So hey—if you think about it, this tight little body…belongs to Overhaul too. Isn’t that right, sir?”

You squirm in place as best you can but with the metal cuffs digging into your wrists, there’s nothing you can do to get away from his touch. You’re desperate enough to shoot a terrified glance up at the leader—surely there are rules about treating an innocent girl like this, even for the yakuza—but he looks as unmoved as before. “Get her out of my sight. We’ll give her a rest for the next few days, and then…”

“No!” you yelp, too panicked to keep up the pretense of confidence. “I won’t, I can’t do that, please don’t make me—“

“Shhh. You’ll get used to it, princess. And if you don’t…” Setsuno’s hand combs though your hair and then trails down your neck, tracing the path of your spine between your shoulder blades. “…well, you won’t really have much of a choice, will you?”

And then he’s tugging on your cuffed hands, pulling you to a standing position, but you wriggle away from him and do everything you can to stay planted on the ground so they can’t take you away from here, away from the only man who is capable of stopping this. Overhaul. “Please! I’m— I can work it off another way! I’ll be useful— I’ll—“

Overhaul leans forward a fraction in his chair, and you wonder if you’ve caught his interest. “What, exactly? How do you think you can be useful to me?”

You bite your lip and wrack your brains, not knowing whether the question is rhetorical. What skills do you have that would be valuable to them? Suddenly all the knowledge you’ve gained in your short life seems so meaningless. You’re a decent receptionist (well, decent is a stretch), but if Overhaul wanted someone to answer calls for him you’re pretty sure he would’ve asked.

Why did you spend your life learning such impractical skills? The four-year weekend course you took on horseback riding jumps to mind and you want to hit your head against the wall. Why didn’t you ask your father to sponsor a class in something that would actually matter in the long run? And what would even be useful to these people? Accounting? Bookkeeping? Extortion?

There’s nothing valuable you can offer. You’ve wasted your life, and now you’re going to pay for it. Seriously, the only thing you’re actually good at is keeping your boyfriends (or, rather, the men you cycle through once a month) happy until the novelty wears off and you get bored and move on to the next lovesick target—

—wait. Keeping your boyfriends happy. That’s a skill, isn’t it?

Once, a little bit after you turned eighteen, you’d had a rather illicit conversation with one of your more sexually adventurous friends about being a sugar baby. Your friend had just secured a very generous benefactor, and you’d been so intrigued by all the designer purses and vacations to Cabo that you’d almost considered trying it for yourself. She’d even helped you set up a profile on Seeking Arrangements that listed your physical features and interests, but you’d blanched when it came time to post photos.

“But why do men even like this?” you'd asked your friend after your picture-less profile received its dozenth unsolicited offer. “Rich, successful guys shouldn’t have so much trouble finding girlfriends that they have to resort to paying for sex.”

“It’s a power trip,” she’d replied. “Most men never get the chance to have a woman who’s willing to do and be whatever he wants, whenever he wants it. You’re his ideal girlfriend, his therapist, his wife, and his stress relief all in one.”

At the time, you’d decided against it, deleting your profile and telling your friend you’d rather just keep taking advantage of your real father doting on you than have to fake orgasms for rich men in their 50’s. But back then, you’d had a choice; now that you’ve been kidnapped by a gang who wants you to get fucked by a bevy of strangers to pay off a debt you’ve never even heard of, you no longer have the privilege of a way out. Or, at least, the options are a lot less appealing than before.

You tilt your head back to Overhaul, eyeing him for the first time with real scrutiny instead of prideful disgust. Judging from what you can see of his face under the ornate bird mask (and again, what is with the freaking bird masks?), he’s fairly young, mid-twenties at the oldest. Short, sort of wavy dark hair (you’ve always had a thing for dark hair), a trim suit and tie, and those eyes. Like he can read your mind just looking at you.

He’s…handsome enough, you have to admit to yourself. But it’s not just that. There’s something pristine about him, something untouchable that commands discipline. He’s clean. You and him are probably the only clean things in this hovel of a room.

“Well? I’m waiting,” Overhaul says.

And now that you’ve got the idea in your head, it’s almost too embarrassing to meet his gaze. But you can do this; you have to do this. At least it’ll be your choice, and—you’re hoping—it’ll be better than the alternative.

“I could be yours,” you tell him, taking pride in the fact that your voice isn’t breaking.

His eyes narrow and you think god, his eyelashes are long. It’s not fair. Men never appreciate having long eyelashes. What is he thinking? Is he going to kill you for even suggesting it? But it’s too late now…you have to dig yourself a little deeper if you don’t want to go through with their original plan for debt fulfillment.

You force your muscles to relax, knowing this’ll be impossible to pull off if you’re tense and biting down on the words like they’re going to choke you. If you’re going to make him believe it, you have to make yourself believe it too. “You… This job must be hard. Even for a—a powerful man like you, it has to be stressful, right? Always looking out for the interests of the gang instead of your own…needs.”

Overhaul doesn’t move, but you’re so focused on him it would be impossible for you to miss the way a single muscle in his neck flexes. You’ve hit a nerve.

You take a cautious step toward him, trying to channel the sexually-liberated vixen you consider yourself when you’re not in your nightgown surrounded by men who could murder you with their bare hands and not miss a minute of sleep. “You’re always giving, aren’t you? Looking toward the future of the gang? Doesn’t it get frustrating when—when a pretty thing is in front of you and you don’t even get…a little taste of her?”

Oh god, you can feel the humiliated heat rushing to your cheeks. How can you be saying this? You’ve played the role of seductress plenty of times before, but never in such a risky situation. You just have to keep moving toward him and hope it feels authentic enough to convince him.

“You’ve worked hard. And…like he said, my—my body belongs to you.” Now you’re close enough to Overhaul and he hasn’t stopped you, so you lower yourself onto the floor, knees bumping softly into the cold surface. Kneeling between his legs.

Overhaul stares down at you, gaze as sharp and cold as before—and you’re sick with anxiety, so scared you can feel your hairs raising up on end—but if he wanted you to stop, he would have said something, right? So you shuffle a little closer and nuzzle your cheek over the inside of his clothed thigh like a kitten, then raise your head up to him to give him your best bedroom look, the one that says, I want you. I need you. No one but you. The look no man has ever been able to resist.

“…You deserve something to yourself, sir,” you murmur.

There’s a collective intake of breath as every person in the room simultaneously realizes what you’re offering. Overhaul’s expression doesn’t change, but once again, a tendon jumps out white under the skin of his throat and there’s a creak of latex on leather as his grip on the arm of the chair tightens.

“Damn,” Setsuno says under his breath from behind you. Someone whistles. You’re pretty sure you hear the word ‘slut’ being tossed around, but there’s reverence behind it.

“And what makes you think you’re so valuable?” Overhaul asks.

You close your eyes to ground yourself for a second. He’s interested, you know that much. You’ve never really had to convince someone to want you, but there’s a first time for everything. Besides, you only have to look at him for a second to know he does want you, which isn’t a surprise. Who wouldn’t?

“I’ll do anything you want, be anything you want,” you tell him, echoing your conversation with your friend back then. “Take out your anger on me if that’s what you’re into. When you’re tired of me, you can consider my debt paid and let me go.”

“And?” he prompts.

‘And’? And what? You’re offering yourself to him, your body and your mind—what more can he possibly ask from you? You cast your thoughts around, wondering what else you have to give him. “And…and I’ll do it willingly. You, um—you look like a man who appreciates obedience.”

And that’s it. Your last shred of pride is gone. Not only are you offering yourself up to a man to use as his personal stress doll, you’re saying you’ll be compliant every step of the way. Knowing yourself, you’re pretty sure that’s impossible, but you just need to make him believe it long enough for you to find a way out of here. You can pretend to enjoy getting fucked by a gangster a few times. You’ll live.

But you’re naive. And with the stream of thoughts pushing through your head, you never really consider one thing, one essential thing: how you look pleading up at him in that pale pink nightdress—soft, pure, immaculate against the filth of the underworld, the only clean body that Overhaul’s seen in a long time.

And you’re right. He is a man who appreciates obedience.

“Willingly…so you’d be willing to prove it.”

Your head jerks up and down in response. Yes! He’s taking the bait, now I just have to get him alone and—

“Then demonstrate.”

When a moment passes and you don’t move, Overhaul tips his head to the side, gaze still locked on you, and gestures vaguely at his lap. You blink and then shy back, shrinking under the hungry gazes of the onlookers. “You can’t mean—in front of them?”

“And here I thought you were going to be obedient.” There’s no mercy, no amusement in his voice. No hint of humanity.

So he’s serious. He wants you to give him a blowjob in front of—how many? one, two three, four—four other men!? Your first instinct is to jump back away from him and your next is to slap him for even suggesting it; you can actually hear the jingle of your cuffs as you attempt to raise your hand. You’ve gotten a little kinky before—blindfolds, vibrators, maybe a hand tied to the bedpost with a Hermès scarf once or twice, but this is a whole different level. And the way they’re all looking at you…like they’re itching to see you brought down. How absolutely disgusting.

But Overhaul’s waiting for your answer, and you know full well that you’re not going to deny him.

“O-Of course.” You lean forward over the seat of the chair so your face is just inches from his lap. “Um. My hands...?”

They’re still cuffed behind you, but it seems like they’re going to stay that way when Overhaul gives a curt shake of his head. “Use your mouth.”

Once again, you’re stunned into silence. How are you supposed to—? Without your hands? It doesn’t even seem like he’s going to undo his pants for you. It’s like he wants to humiliate you…oh, wait. As soon as the thought crosses your mind, it’s clear that’s exactly what he’s trying to do.

You give him another doe-eyed glance, bidding him to at least undo his belt, but he remains unmoved. Bastard.

After aiming another glare at him (because as obedient as you’re attempting to be, you’ve never been good at concealing your emotions) you lean deeper in and take the stiff leather of his belt between your teeth, gently easing it out of the buckle and trying to ignore the mixture of earthy and metallic tastes it leaves on your tongue. It takes a few tries, but eventually you’ve got the tail of the belt out of the buckle and you pull your head back to guide the metal down until the belt is hanging open from its loops.

A rush of accomplishment surges through you when you get it open, and then you want to slap yourself. Accomplishment? From doing this with your mouth like an animal—like a dog? You can hear laughter and mocking encouragement from the men watching, but you steel yourself and dip back in to get Overhaul’s pants undone. The button is tricky, especially with your face nudging into the hard muscle of his abdomen through his shirt, but somehow you manage to tug the fabric slit over the button and then—delicately, delicately—clamp the zipper between your teeth and peel it downward.

“Oh, she’s good,” someone says from the background. Setsuno. You look up warily, but Overhaul’s eyes haven’t moved from you.

Now that you’ve got his pants open, you’re face to face (literally) with what you’re going to have to deal with. The outline of his cock is bulging the fabric of his boxers outward, and he’s not even half erect. You snatch a look back up at him—and damn it, you have to stop doing that, because every time you look into those golden eyes and that stupid bird mask you feel like a lamb looking at a bird of prey right before it snatches you from your safe little lamb-house in the meadow and—fuck, you just have to get on with it.

So you dip down and mouth over him through the fabric, spreading the flat of your tongue over the length of his thick cock. Your mouth feels like you’ve been eating cotton (probably because they drugged you earlier) but you force yourself to salivate, letting drool spill over your tongue and dampen his boxers. When you duck and spread your lips down on the place you can feel the tip stretching out, you know the friction must feel good, because despite the lack of even so much of a deep breath from the man above you, his cock is getting harder.

You nudge your mouth over the tent between Overhaul’s legs again, letting the heat of your breath wash over him—but when he doesn’t do anything, you pull back and blink up at his face. Does he expect you to get him off through his underwear? You could, but most of your moves depend on skin-to-skin contact. There’s no way you can get his cock out with your mouth like you undid his pants, so…what? “Are—are you going to take it out?”

Overhaul brings a gloved hand to his face to rub absently at one of the straps on his mask. “…Beg,” he tells you.

Your mouth drops open and you reel back from his lap like he asked you to lick the dirt off the floor. What!? He can’t seriously expect you to—to beg him to put his dick in your mouth when you’re clearly disgusted at the whole situation. When he doesn’t give any indication of retracting the statement, you can’t help the mocking sneer that forms over your face. “Please, sir,” you spit, and a deaf man could hear the spite in your voice.

Now, that gets a reaction. Overhaul’s eyes flash and you take a certain degree of pride back at the anger you’ve clearly inspired in him. But it’s extinguished as soon as you see it, and then he’s reaching down to cup your chin, tilting your head back and rubbing his thumb over your lower lip.

“I think you can do better than that, princess,” he says, and you can hear your own mocking tone reflected back in his voice. “Unless you’d like me to give my men a turn?”

This, more than anything, scares you. He must be able to feel the way your spine goes stiff, adrenaline rushing, your fight-or-flight instinct kicking in at the prospect of what he’s threatening.

“Each of them, one by one. Between the four of them, I think they could cure that smart mouth…although they might just break you in the process,” he continues, and then his thumb is pressing into your lip, into your mouth, and you loosen your jaw to let him in. You can taste the rubbery latex of his gloves and the other men mutter agreement, encouraging their leader to turn you over to them, and you want to cry.

But you hold the tears back. “Please, sir! Please, please may I s-suck your cock sir? Please!” Your voice is more terrified than obedient, but that’s probably what he’s into anyway. When he doesn’t say anything, you babble on, unwilling to let yourself get gangbanged by a group of men who could probably wreck your pussy in a single round. “Please, please, Mr.—Mr. Overhaul, um, boss? M-Master?”

“Sir will do just fine,” Overhaul says, apparently satisfied, and he pulls his hand away from your face to free his cock from his boxers.

You let out a hot sigh of relief and angle yourself back toward his lap so you can zero in on his cock (and, hopefully, do a little to block out how sickeningly degrading all of this is: how easy it is for him to threaten you; how he has all the power and you have none; how the men around you are goading you, taunting you and calling you things that should get their mouths washed out with soap). You can focus on this, and this, at least, you’re good at. You’ve always been good with your mouth.

It’s a nice dick, too, you have to admit to yourself as you stare at it. Perfect length, girth, and a thick, cut head that you know just by looking that you’re going to have to stretch your jaw to get around. All his hair is neatly trimmed and groomed, and he even smells good, clean and fresh like soap. You’ve never been in front of a dick that didn’t smell like day-old ball sweat, so this is a first. It’s got a nice upward curve, too, and there’s a bead of pearly precum oozing out of the tip. The kind of cock that’s made for penetrative orgasms—

No. Fuck. You cannot be thinking this. You cannot allow yourself to lust after a gang leader who thinks of you as little more than an interactive sex doll. A tingle of blood rushes to your cheeks as you feel wetness pool in your panties and you adjust your stance, shuffling your thighs apart under the pretense of getting closer and hoping Overhaul doesn’t notice.

If he notices, he does the merciful thing and keeps quiet (which makes you think he has no idea you’re feeling the way you’re feeling, because he’s probably never chosen to do the merciful thing in his life). He does, however, shift one of his knees farther apart to accommodate you as you crawl close enough to him to get your head all the way between his legs.

So now you’re staring up at that unfairly pretty cock and wondering how the fuck this is supposed to start, but—best just get on with it. Pretend it’s not him, pretend it’s…no, wait, pretend it is him, it is Overhaul, the same bastard who’s looking down at you like you’re trash, except pretend you’re in control. Because no matter how many orders he gives, once you’ve got his cock in his mouth he’ll have to be the weak one. Right?

Lightly, slowly, you trace the tip of your tongue in a wet path up the underside of his cock, sliding up from the hilt to caress every bulging vein with all the delicacy and accuracy of a surgeon. When you reach the tip, you flatten your tongue to curve it around that bulbous head and then slip it off, the suction providing a wet smacking sound as your skin leaves his.

The breath of his barely-heavier exhale ruffles your hair and you relish the knowledge that he’s getting impatient. Yes. The bastard can wait.

You kiss the tip of his cock, barely moving your lips around the slit, only enough to let your tongue flick out against the precum and gather the bitter liquid up in your mouth. And then—right when he’s getting annoyed, when you can tell by the tension in his body that he’s five seconds away from shoving your head down to fuck your face—you duck closer, relax your throat, and swallow.

Like a fucking python. Or so you’ve been told.

The exhale that escapes him isn’t light this time. You can almost hear the barest hint of a groan under his breath, but you’re more focused on holding down your gag reflex as you let that heavy cock hit the back of your throat. Once he’s all the way down (or at least as far as you can get him), you rock yourself back an inch and then take him deeper, forcing yourself to hold still so he can feel the walls of your throat convulse around him, sucking him in, dry-gagging on the mass that’s filling you up.

“Fuuuuck,” you hear someone whine, and it’s not even Overhaul. It’s one of the men watching, and you feel a perverse mixture of hatred and arrogance rise up in you.

Overhaul’s cock is too big for you to properly moan around it, but you give it a go anyway so he can feel the vibration of your voice through his skin. You’re rewarded with a tangible twitch with it sitting on your tongue, and—oh—your mouth is watering out of where you’re clenching down on him at the back of your throat.

Spittle slips out over your lower lip and onto your chin, but you ignore it in favor of jerking your head up and down in fractional strokes, trying your absolute best to get yourself down to his base but knowing that he probably doesn’t give a shit anyway, not with how good your throat feels around what you’re capable of stuffing in.

What were you saying about ‘valuable’, sir? you think, and then you pull your head off his cock, so slow it’s almost cruel, sucking your cheeks in and hollowing out so those wet walls are rubbing up on every millimeter of his skin. When you reach the tip, you savor it, letting your tongue do the dirty work and looking up at him through your lash extensions before you release him with a nasty wet pop.

“Holy fuck, can I have her next?” one of the other men says, but you and Overhaul are too focused on each other to even look and see who’s talking.

His gaze is trained firmly down at you, and—no way, damn it—he looks bored, like he could be waiting in line at the DMV instead of getting sucked off by you, a girl who’s been complimented by every man she’s ever been with (including her first) on her bj technique. You know he’s feeling it—he can fake calm, but he can’t fake the way his cock’s throbbing under your tongue as you lick up the shaft. Still, now that you’ve got it in your head that Overhaul’s not going to make a sound, all you can think about is forcing him to moan. Let him look weak in front of all his little lackeys.

With renewed vigor, you lap up the length of Overhaul’s cock in sloppy dabs, leaving strings of saliva dripping off your mouth and his cock only to slurp them up, audibly, wiggling your tongue over the tip when you reach it. And that, that gets him, because you feel more than see the buck of his hips into your face as he hisses out a curse.

And—oh dear, maybe you shouldn’t have done that—because the next thing you feel is Overhaul looming forward over you, hand gripping the back of your head, and is he going to force you down? You hate that—so you take the initiative, tilting forward to take him into your mouth again, head bobbing up and down so quickly that your hair is falling all over your face, but it’s okay, because he’s got you, he’s got you, got his hands combed through your hair holding it out of your face, pulling so lightly it barely even hurts, but it does hurt, and he’s guiding you up and down on his cock and it’s hitting the back of your throat every time, and—and it hurts.

You really shouldn’t have done that.

“Take it deeper,” Overhaul instructs, almost encouraging, although you’re not given the option to pull off because he’s holding you down, pushing you firmly toward the base of his cock. You sputter around it, gagging, and you’re almost fucking choking, and he won’t let you up.

God, you’re not—not breathing, you can feel your throat choking down on him—“breathe through your nose,” he says, and this man, this villain has no idea what he’s fucking talking about, because you’re trying, eyes stinging and then you can feel tears down your cheeks. You try to squirm back on your knees, but somehow the combined force of every muscle in your body is outmatched by his single hand on the back of your head—and—and—you squeeze your eyes shut, relax, open your throat as much as you can and—

Overhaul forces your mouth down to the hilt.

Fuck, is he going to keep you there? You can’t, you can’t—if you could move, you’d be shaking your head and begging him to let you stop and as it is you’re whimpering around his cock. Your throat is making gagging noises and you’re crying, actually crying, actually fucking crying on a man’s dick. So this is what it feels like to be used?

“Good.” There’s something lower and darker in Overhaul’s voice, a husky undertone from the growl he’s trying to suppress. “Hold still…remember, you asked for this.”

You did. You asked for it. Begged for it. Pleaded.

“Want me to forgive your father’s debt…? You’re going to have to earn it.” He pulls out an inch just to ram himself back in. You make a weak attempt to move your tongue around his shaft and you can feel the shudder all the way through him, his cock twitching where it’s locked in your throat. “Mm…good girl. Just a little—little longer—“

His fingers are tightening in your hair, curling around the strands and tugging instead of just applying pressure to your head. He’s close, you think, and then you struggle back, not wanting him to cum down your throat, what if you choke on it? Like, really choke? You don’t want it, don’t want his cum in your stomach, but then he sighs and tells you again that you’re a good girl, and ohfuckohfuck you must be so scared you’re desperate for praise because you feel heat rush into your cheeks and your cunt when he says it and you try to move your tongue like you did earlier and his hips jerk forward and—he cums. In your mouth.

It’s salty, you think. The next thing you think is that you want to gag, because you’ve never had cum in your mouth before. For all your sexual experimentation, you’ve never let a man cum down your throat like this, always telling them it shoot it on your tits or whatever because you are not a person who should have semen in her mouth, much less ingest it.

But right now, with Overhaul lazily dragging your head up and down for a last couple pumps on his softening dick, your choice isn’t spit or swallow. It’s swallow or choke.

Hot. Thick. The texture is slimy, so viscous you can feel it going down your throat in strings. Part of you wants to throw up. It’s repulsive. Filthy. You hate this.

Part of you has to shift your position again so you don’t have to feel your own wetness slicking up the insides of your thighs.

How. Is. This. Possible. You may have just had to swallow your pride (and not just that), but what about your dignity? You’re a good person…okay, well, even if you’re not a ‘good person’ per se, you don’t hurt anyone with your selfishness. You don’t deserve to be kept as a pet by a sadistic bastard who gets off on watching you almost pass out on his cock, and you certainly don’t deserve the humiliation of finding that you’re turned on by it.

And yet. Here you are. Still held securely in place until Overhaul slides you off him. As soon as your mouth is free you suck in a dizzyingly deep breath, but even that is too much for your battered throat and the breath turns into a cough; you instinctively fold down away from Overhaul so the mixed saliva and cum you’re hacking out spatters in cloudy white flecks across the floor instead of on his clothing.

“Stop that,” Overhaul scolds, hauling you back up by your hair and forcing your mouth closed with a hand on your jaw. “If you make a mess, you’ll be cleaning it up.”

Considering what he just made you do to him, there’s no doubt in your mind that he’s implying you’ll have to lick it off the floor. You clench your jaw, holding back the convulsions of your throat as best you can, and hope he doesn’t press the issue.

Now that you’ve got your coughing under control, you can start to sense things that you had been tuning out before: the men hooting and wolf-whistling and applauding your performance, the traitorously persistent throb of your clit pulsing under your panties, and Overhaul’s hand releasing your chin to pet down your neck. “Now. What do you say when someone gives you a meal?”

Just you wait, bastard. I’m going to tie you to your bed and set fire to it. But you’ve got the sense that that answer won’t go over well, so you take a deep breath and look up at him again, meeting those piercing gold eyes with your own. “Thank you, sir,” you say in a soft whisper because it’s all your abused throat can manage.

“That’s right.” His hands feel colder than the concrete under your legs as he spreads his hand down your neck, only to toy with one of the lacy pink straps of your nightdress. “Stand up.”

You stand shakily, too cowed to even consider stepping back from him. Without warning (much less permission), Overhaul lifts the hem of your stupidly short dress up past your thighs, exposing your panties and lower belly to view.

“Hold this in your mouth,” he says, and after only a few seconds of hesitation you open up and bite down on the fabric so you’re effectively holding up the skirt for him. Overhaul skims gloved hands down the sides of your hips and comes to a rest when he reaches your panties—and why did you have to wear these today? Shiny red satin in the front; the back is just flowers worked in crimson lace. You know exactly how good you look in these panties, and judging by the things Overhaul’s men are saying, they’re more than appreciative of the view.

But Overhaul ignores them in favor of hooking his fingers under the elastic and pulling the panties down until they’re resting stretched between your upper thighs. You don’t have to see them to know there’s a string of slick connecting the lips of your cunt to the fabric, betraying in full technicolor detail how turned on you’ve gotten just from sucking him off. He gazes down at your pussy and then up to you as if waiting for you to admit it, but you stay silent.

“Well, well. What a nicely-trained slut I’ve found myself.” He gracelessly pulls the panties the rest of the way down your legs and lets them fall to the ground. “Do you always get this wet when you let your boyfriends fuck that smart mouth?”

It takes you a second to comprehend that he’s expecting an answer. “N-No, sir,” you reply, voice muffled by the fabric you’re still holding between your teeth.

“I suppose I can’t leave you like this, not after you took me so nicely.”

Does he mean he’s going to get you off? No freaking way. You drop the hem of your dress, let it flutter down over your thighs, try to scramble back, but his hand on your waist keeps you from moving. “I— It’s okay, I don’t need—“

“No, I think you do. I think I’m going to reward my pet for a job well done.” He leans back, eyeing you without sympathy. “I’d have you touch yourself, but—“

The mere possibility that he might remove the handcuffs has you straining against them again, and the sound of metal against metal rings out from behind you.

“—but, I think it’s best to keep the cuffs on for a few days…until you’ve settled down.”

Days? He can’t leave you in chains for days, helpless and powerless, so easy to take advantage of. “You can’t,” you whimper, and even though you mean for it to be a decisive statement, with your throat ravaged and hoarse it’s downright pathetic. Overhaul doesn’t even bother reprimanding you for talking back.

“My men have been patient,” he muses, and an enthusiastic wave of agreement wells up from the others. “Any of them would be happy to do it.”

You may have been through a lot in the past hour alone, but there is no way you’re going to let those rowdy criminals have their way with you. You send a nervous glance around the room and as predicted, not a single one of them looks like they have the slightest shred of control over themselves.

None of them…except Overhaul.

Still eased back in his chair, he looks just as relaxed and unaffected as he did when he was explaining your father’s debts to you. But there’s something flickering in his eyes, something he isn’t going to say to you, isn’t going to say out loud. A challenge.

Maybe, once again, he’s waiting for you to ask for it yourself. And if it’s a choice between him and one of the grimy ruffians who’ve been looking at you like dogs look at meat, you know what you’d prefer. Well—really, you’d prefer option C: none of the above (your current state might be uncomfortable, but you’re not so wanton that you’d rather cum in front of strangers than keep your legs together). Unfortunately, you’re starting to come to terms with the fact that ‘no’ is no longer an option.

Overhaul’s stare flicks from you to an unseen figure behind you, and you can tell he’s about to summon one of them over so you force yourself to move, lurching forward and climbing into his lap to straddle one of his thighs with all the grace you’re capable of. You feel the stir in the air when he inhales sharply, surprised, and his masked face is so close to your neck that you wonder if he can smell the lotion you put on before you went to bed last night.

It’s one of your favorite scents: vanilla, lilac, orange blossoms. You bought it because it smelled pure.

“Please, sir, I don’t want them,” you breathe next to his ear, injecting every ounce of sexual frustration you’re feeling into the needy tones of your voice. “I’m yours. I belong to you, just you. No one else—please, sir…Overhaul.”

He’s quiet for a long, tense moment, and you think he’s going to hit you, or maybe even kill you for your disobedience. Push you off his lap at least. But just when you’re teetering on the edge of jumping back from him and begging for forgiveness for talking out of turn, you feel it—a low rumble of laughter from deep in his chest.

Big, cold hands wrap around the sides of your ribcage under your breasts and his fingernails dig into you through the layers of latex and fabric. He tilts forward, forcing you to arch away and all you can think about is how horribly weak you are compared to him. Are you trembling? Will he be angry if you feels how afraid you are?

“You know, I guess I’ll keep you after all,” he hums, stroking his fingers through your hair and down your neck. “How does that sound, princess? I think you’d like that very much, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, sir.” The response comes all too easily, even if the words taste bitter in your mouth. You’ve never said the word ‘sir’ so much in your life…but as he repositions you on his lap and slides a single hand up the inside of your thigh under your dress, you bite your lip and decide to hold back your protest.

If you’re going to have to learn manners, you’d better do it sooner rather than later. Something tells you Overhaul’s not going to accept any less than your best behavior if you want to pay off your debt.

[imekitty]

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10

The idea for this part came from @dp-marvel94. Thanks!

—

Jack watched the newest clone sleep. The boy’s chest rose and fell, rhythmically, deeply, gently.

Besides the number 14 tattooed on his upper arm, he looked exactly like Danny in his human form.

Jack rested his arms on the examination table, watching the clone’s face for any change or stirring consciousness. He had been instructed to stay by the clone’s side and mark the exact time he woke while Maddie was upstairs waiting to see when Danny would leave for his patrol.

Jack hoped the clone wouldn’t wake at all this time.

He glanced over the notes Maddie had made for their research and experimentation with this clone, who had been here several days now. Not the longest they had kept a clone. There was the tenth clone they starved who didn’t die for a few weeks.

Jack wasn’t sure which he hated more: the experiments that killed the clones quickly or the ones that required keeping the clones alive for an extended amount of time.

Either way, the clones screamed and screamed but were unheard outside the soundproofed lab.

And Maddie ignored them all.

The clone’s body twitched against the belts strapping him to the table. Jack watched the clone’s eyes slit open before looking at the clock and jotting down a time on his notepad.

“Oh, God,” the clone moaned. “Oh, God, no.”

Jack noted the clone’s watery eyes and thick articulation. “How are you feeling? Headache? Nausea? Do you know where you are right now?”

“Where is she?” The clone’s face paled. “Mom?”

“She doesn’t like you calling her that,” said Jack. “And she’s not here yet. Please just tell me how you’re feeling. You know what happens when you make things hard for us.”

The clone swallowed. “My neck and throat hurt. I’m really thirsty.”

Jack recorded the clone’s words. “I’ll see if Maddie will let you have some water before we start tonight.”

The clone sniffled. “I keep hoping I’ll wake up in my bed.”

Jack lowered his eyes.

“What are you going to do to me this time?” whispered the clone.

“More drug trials,” said Jack.

The clone shut his eyes, tears trickling from the corners. “No. Please. I don’t want to do any more. Not again.”

“I know,” said Jack. “Hopefully one of them will knock you out again so you can sleep through most of the day until tomorrow night.”

“No. No, I don’t want that, I just want to leave, I just—”

The clone’s chest convulsed, his body writhing against the restraints. Jack clenched his teeth and clasped his hands on the table.

“It hurts so much,” wept the clone. “Dad, please, I can’t do this anymore.”

“I’m not your dad,” said Jack. This was how Maddie was able to do this guilt free, convince herself that the clone was not her son.

So why wasn’t this working for him too?

“You’re not Danny,” he said more quietly.

The clone choked on a sob. “You keep telling me that. You keep telling me that I’m not real, that I’m a clone.”

The clone looked at the far wall, his eyes glassing over.

“But this feels real.” His words were barely audible, hardly voiced. “I feel real. And I don’t know why you and Mom are keeping me here like this.”

Jack pressed his hands to his forehead. “Maddie is so much better at this,” he muttered.

“Why are you keeping me here?” asked the clone.

“It’s just for research,” said Jack, lowering his hands with a tired sigh. “You’re not the first clone we’ve had here in this lab. You’re not going to be the first we kill here.” He paused. “And you won’t be the last.”

The clone’s breathing became erratic, shallow. “I don’t want to die,” he gasped. “I don’t—not here—not like this—”

Jack looked away from the clone’s face. Too pitiful, too sad, too much like Danny.

“You can’t,” the clone blubbered. “Don’t. Please. Don’t do this, Dad.”

Jack looked toward the lab door. Maddie still wasn’t here.

He looked at the clone again. The clone blinked wet eyes.

He imagined the clone’s unmoving body. He imagined zipping it up in another bag and carrying it to Vlad’s lab because Maddie always made him carry the body.

He knew exactly what the clone would look like when he died. Jack had seen it thirteen times now.

He did not want to see it a fourteenth.

Jack moved quickly, undoing the belts around the clone’s ankles, wrists, and abdomen.

“Go,” he said once the last belt was undone. “Leave.”

The clone sat up on the table and stared at Jack with his mouth hanging open.

“Go. Before Maddie gets here,” said Jack quietly but firmly. “Get far away from here and don’t come back.”

The clone clutched the fabric of his hospital gown against his chest.

“Go,” said Jack more forcefully, “or you will die.”

The clone pulled his knees up under him. Jack gave him a final warning glare. The clone transformed into his ghost form and shot up through the ceiling, vanishing beyond it.

Jack hunched over the now vacant examination table.

The lab door opened. Jack listened to the sound of Maddie’s boots clicking on the stairs.

“Sorry I took so long,” said Maddie. “I kept waiting to see when Danny was going to leave for his nightly patrol. But he decided to do his homework instead and then went to bed, no patrol. It’s interesting how he sometimes chooses being a good student over a hero.”

Jack straightened but did not say anything. Maddie stopped a short distance away from the table.

“Where’s the clone?” she asked.

Jack didn’t look at her.

“Where’s the clone?” she asked again, her tone sharpening.

“He’s gone,” said Jack.

“Gone? What do you mean, gone?”

“I let him go.”

Maddie froze.

“Why?” she asked with a dark thickness.

“I couldn’t do it again, Maddie.”

Her nostrils flared. Her upper lip curled in a snarl.

“I told him to get away from here,” said Jack. “Far away so you can’t hurt him anymore. So you can’t kill him.”

Maddie stared at him. Jack waited for her to snap, to scream.

But instead, she turned on her heel and stomped up the stairs out of the lab. Jack released a sigh as the lab door slammed shut.

He set to cleaning and organizing the lab. He wasn’t about to go up to bed right now, not when Maddie was this angry with him.

Hours later, Jack rubbed his eyes and checked the clock. Nearly four in the morning. Should he go upstairs to bed, or should he sleep on the couch? Or even down here in the lab?

The lab door opened. Jack furrowed his brow and turned toward the stairs. Maddie’s boots clicked on each step as usual, but something else thumped along beside her, something that sounded heavy.

Maddie appeared at the base of the stairs, her orange goggles set over her eyes and aimed right at Jack, her lips curved in a stern frown.

Beside her, she held the fourteenth clone by the wrist, now in his human form and wearing the hospital gown Vlad had originally dressed him in. He was slumped on the floor, covered in gashes and scrapes, his left eye bloodied.

“Maddie.” Jack gaped. “Maddie, what did you—”

Maddie gripped the clone’s wrist tighter and lifted him off the floor. “He has the same ecto-signature Danny does. All the clones do. It was easy to track him down.”

The clone hung his head.

“You really tracked him down just to bring him back here?” asked Jack.

“Of course I did,” snapped Maddie. “You know we can’t just let these clones free. We can’t risk Danny running into them. Or God forbid, the Guys in White capturing them.”

Jack watched a trickle of blood fall from past the clone’s hairline down his forehead.

“So what do you want to do now?” asked Jack quietly, calmly. “Proceed with your plans for this clone?”

“No. He’s useless now,” said Maddie. “He’s not in proper condition for further experimentation. Everything we’ve done with him is pointless data now.”

Maddie threw the clone forward onto the floor. The clone crumpled and did not get up. His sleeve hiked just above the number 14 tattooed on his arm.

“Waste of our money,” she muttered.

Jack sighed and rubbed the back of his head. “Then what do you want to do with him?”

“Just quick lethal injection,” said Maddie. “Let’s just do it now and go to bed.”

“Quick lethal injection. Glad you’re being humane about this,” said Jack.

Maddie jabbed a finger in his direction. “Don’t start with me. We’ll talk about this in the morning. Right now, I am exhausted.”

“Right. Beating up a teenage boy takes a lot out of you,” said Jack.

Maddie glared at him before moving to the counters to prepare the injection. Jack bent and scooped the clone into his arms. Up close, Jack could now see the red splotches in his eyes, the break in his nose, the split in his bottom lip.

He didn’t beg for anything this time.

—

The next morning, Danny met Sam and Tucker outside on the school steps.

“Hey, I thought you said you weren’t going on patrol last night,” said Tucker.

“Yeah, you said you actually wanted to get some sleep for once,” said Sam with a wry smile.

“You should’ve told us you changed your mind!” said Tucker. “We would’ve joined you. Or did your ghost sense go off?”

Danny frowned. “I didn’t go out last night. What are you talking about?”

“I saw you flying last night,” said Tucker. “I was looking out my window and saw you.”

“What? You saw me?”

“Did you decide to go for just a night flight?” asked Sam.

“No, I didn’t go out at all. You couldn’t have seen me.”

“It looked just like you,” said Tucker. “Are you sure you weren’t out last night?”

The first bell rang. Students began shuffling past them into the building.

“I wasn’t out last night,” said Danny. “I actually finished my homework for once and then went to bed.”

“Huh.” Tucker shrugged. “I guess it was a different ghost with white hair in a black suit.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time you were seeing things,” teased Sam. “Your eyes were probably bugging out from staying up too late playing video games.”

“They were not!”

“Were you even wearing your glasses?”

“Yes, of course I was!”

Sam and Tucker led the way inside the school. Danny followed, but not before glancing up at the sky.

Part 12

[onecanonlife]

careful son (you got dreamer's plans)

Wilbur gasps back to life with mud between his fingers and rain in his eyes.

Wilbur was dead. Now, he is not. He can't say that he's particularly happy about it.

Unfortunately, the server is still as tumultuous as ever, even with Dream locked away, so it seems that his involvement in things isn't a matter of if, but when.

(Alternatively: the prodigal son returns, and a broken family finally begins to heal. If, that is, the egg doesn't get them all killed first.)

Chapter Word Count: 7,295

Chapter Warnings: swearing, injury, blood, aftermath of (temporary) character death, mild disassociation, slight s.uicidal ideation, references to past abuse

Chapter Summary: The emotional fallout is intense, but they don’t have time to stop and deal with it. Wilbur doesn’t particularly like where they decide to hole up, but beggars can’t be choosers.

(masterlist w/ ao3 links)

(first chapter) (previous chapter) (next chapter)

Chapter Twelve: nowhere to run

The sun is too bright in his eyes. Too bright, and wrong, somehow, that it should be shining like this. Should still be shining, after the loss they’ve just suffered, after watching his brother crumple to dust in front of him. But the sun hardly cares for things like that, so they all stumble out of the hole in the ground that serves as the entrance to the spider spawner and beyond, and the daylight surrounds them, unforgiving.

“Where do we go, what do we do,” Tubbo is chanting, and Ranboo is muttering under his breath, a continuous litany of, “I can’t believe he’s gone, I can’t believe that happened—” His own lips feel glued shut, his throat devoid of sound. His skin buzzes.

(the two images interpose: Techno hanging from the vine, head at an unnatural angle, Techno wavering on his feet, blood pouring from his throat, and there is a flash of light and there is ash all at once, as if the first caused the second, as if instead of healing him, shoving his soul back into a body clinging to life, the totem burned him up from the inside out, and unlike the phoenix there was no rebirth)

“We can’t stay here,” Puffy says. Her eyes are wide, and her hands are shaking, but her voice has the same determined cant to it as it always does. “We need somewhere to hole up.”

“And where is that supposed to be?” Sapnap demands. His breathing is unsteady. “Where the fuck are we supposed to go after that? Where isn’t the thing gonna be able to reach? With, with Dream being, being, what even was that? Why was he—how was he—?” He breaks off, sparks crackling at his fingertips, and his face is a mask of distress, of questions

(was he always like that and did I not see or did something happen to him did something make him like that is that my friend or is there something inside of him something behind his eyes that is not him at all and if that is the case how did I not notice how did I not notice how did I not save him)

that Wilbur feels he recognizes. Or would, if he let himself. If he let himself care.

His eyes drift over to Phil. Phil, who stands silently, blood dripping from his wings, a thousand old injuries reopened by thrashing thorns. Who stands with Tommy in his arms, Tommy, who is curled up as tightly as he can reasonably manage, his face tucked into Phil’s shirt. Trembling. Quiet.

(he will die and I will kill him, the Egg says, and I have already begun, and you cannot protect him, you do not have the strength, except by what I can grant you)

“Church Prime,” Puffy says. “It’s the only place that might be safe.”

“Who’s to say it would be?” Sapnap snaps. “You saw it in there! The vines have never moved like that before, and Prime knows what else it can do now. And maybe the Egg wouldn’t be able to get in, but who’s to say that would stop—” He cuts off again, face contorting.

His leg is beginning to hurt, now. All of him is, actually, now that his adrenaline is wearing thin, now that the horror is sinking in, but it’s concentrated in his leg in particular, and he looks down to see that his left pant leg is all but shredded, blood dripping down in steady streams and splattering on the grass by his feet. The vines got him worse than he thought, then, and he bites his lip against the sting.

He’s had worse, though. He’s had so much worse. This is practically nothing, and Puffy and Sapnap are still arguing, and Tubbo and Ranboo are huddled together, eyeing the vines around them with deep suspicion, unmoving as they are just yet, and Phil is silent, and he’s going to stay silent, because Wilbur recognizes all too well the strain in his eyes, the way he’s holding onto Tommy with a death grip.

(he’s watched two of his sons die, now, and Techno will be back, will still have two lives left, but that does not heal the hurt, does not assuage the pain of seeing your brother, your son, your family die in front of your eyes before you can lift a finger to stop it, and Phil’s eyes shine with a grief almost beyond what Wilbur can understand. except he understands all too well, in the end)

He’s had worse, and someone needs to step up.

(the old mantle settles across his shoulders, and if he closes his eyes it’s like nothing’s changed at all, and the sun sets on the city he is determined to give everything for, still standing, walls still strong)

“Boxed in like a fish,” he croaks, and Puffy and Sapnap turn to him as one. “That’s what we’ll be, if we go to Church Prime. Whether it protects us in the moment of not won’t matter once we run out of supplies. We need somewhere better situated. Somewhere we can defend, that might withstand a siege, if it comes to it.”

Puffy makes a frustrated gesture. “I’m open to suggestions,” she says. “The prison, maybe, if we have to? We could probably keep people out as easily as—ah, shit, Sam.” She pulls her communicator out and taps out a quick message, and then frowns. “It’s telling me it can’t go through. Why isn’t it going through? Sam had all three lives, he should be—”

“Admins can read private messages,” Phil murmurs. “Wouldn’t surprise me if Dream could fuck with the whole system, whatever the fuck he is.”

Wilbur reads between the lines. Techno, for the moment, is unreachable. He processes the information and moves on, refusing to let it get to him, refusing to let himself be overpowered by

(Techno’s unreachable Techno’s unreachable Techno’s respawned and he’s on his own and they can’t talk to him can’t get to him quickly and what if something went wrong what if something happened)

emotions.

“Sam will make his way to us,” he says. “I’m vetoing the prison. Like hell are we staying in there. Other thoughts?”

“What gives you vetoing power?” Sapnap asks.

“Somebody needs to make a decision,” he says, and it is with strength he doesn’t feel, confidence he is only pretending at, a force of command that comes from some unknown place, since he feels as though he is miles away from himself, “and I don’t see you coming up with anything. Either help or stop complaining.”

Sapnap’s face reddens, and he opens his mouth, to argue, no doubt, but then Ranboo breaks in with, “Foolish, maybe?” and hunches his shoulders when attention turns to him. “Sorry, it’s just, I’m pretty sure Foolish isn’t, um, a big fan of the Egg or anything, so maybe he could help?”

Wilbur has no idea who the fuck Foolish is.

“Nah, he’s too far out,” Tubbo says. “It’ll take ages to get to his place. And we need somewhere close, but not too close, so we still have a good place to fight back from, right, Wilbur? If we leave now, the Egg’ll just take over the whole SMP with nothing to stop it.”

“My thoughts exactly, Tubbo,” he says, and again, it is just like the old days, and they are standing atop the L’Manberg walls, and Tubbo has just said something particularly clever, and warmth and pride curl in him before he remembers where they are, what they’re doing. They need to decide, and soon. They’re just hanging around near the entrance, and sooner or later, someone’s going to come after them, whether they let them go at first or not. “Is there anyone else who has a good position, location-wise and resource-wise?”

“Wait,” Puffy says. “Eret’s castle.”

“Eret’s castle doesn’t have doors,” Sapnap says.

“No, but I stopped by earlier to see if they wanted to join us,” Puffy says. “They weren’t there, but the grounds were completely free of vines. And sure, there aren’t any doors, but between all of us, I’m sure we could make some. Eret’s got plenty of supplies, last I checked.”

Eret. The name evokes a wealth of associations, most of them unpleasant. His first instinct is to reject this idea like the last, to avoid placing their lives in the hands of one who has already betrayed him, who led them all into a death trap, who almost ended their revolution in one fell swoop. But Puffy has a point. Eret’s castle ticks all the right boxes: it’s defendable, well-supplied, and if there are no vines to clear, all the better. They’ll have to build doors, but between the lot of them, that’s easily manageable.

(a wealth of associations and many unpleasant but there is Eret offering them supplies offering their fragile rebellion help and they tried so dearly to redeem themself and he could not have seen that then wrapped in his own shadows as he was but perhaps he can see it now perhaps he can better appreciate it, give a little more benefit of the doubt, and if he is given a second chance after everything after committing the worst crime of all then who is he to deny them absolution?)

(another memory, more blurry: he is scared but stalwart as they go through the motions, and he does not want to die, is terrified of that endless void, but he knows that the server needs a leader and his living self must be that leader, and Eret is here, and Eret agrees, and Eret acts out their part, and Eret is trying so hard, and he cannot see their eyes behind their glasses but he imagines that if he could, he would see a fool’s hope in them)

“Eret, then,” he says. “We go to Eret.”

And no one disagrees. It’s strange. They have no reason to listen to him, really. They have far more reasons not to listen to him, more reasons to think that following his lead will end in disaster than otherwise. But Puffy nods, and Sapnap backs down, and Tubbo and Ranboo both look to him for direction like it’s the war and he’s in charge of child soldiers once again. Phil looks to him, too, but his expression is inscrutable, and only a slight tightness around his eyes shows that he’s in any pain at all.

So they go to Eret. Staggering through the grass, tripping over vines that still don’t move, thank Prime, and then along the Prime Path, and his leg hurts worse with every step, pain jolting up into his hip, it seems, and it’s not long before he’s walking with a limp. But they’re all hurt in some way, so he hides it as best he can. He can deal with it when they’re safely behind stone walls.

And then, Tommy says, “Put me down, I can walk.”

Wilbur glances over. Tommy’s face is still buried in Phil’s shirt.

“You sure, mate?” Phil asks softly.

“Yes, I’m fucking sure,” Tommy snaps, louder now, turning his face outward, pushing against Phil’s chest. His cheeks are flushed, his breaths coming short and fast, and he’s trying to pass it off as anger, and maybe part of it is. But Wilbur knows him better than to think that that’s all. Knows him better than to think that he would have let Phil carry him in the first place if he was alright.

“Okay, then,” Phil says, and swings Tommy down. Tommy wavers for a step, but slaps away Phil’s hand when he extends it, muttering a sharp, “Fuck off.”

And then they keep going. Tommy doesn’t say anything else. Wilbur keeps glancing at him, but he’s refusing to meet anyone’s gaze, even Tubbo’s. And—that’s another thing that’s going to have to wait. He wants nothing more than to stop now and make sure that Tommy’s going to be okay, but they don’t have time, and the general in him will not call for a halt until the retreat is over, until he is sure the enemy is not biting at their heels.

(retreating from Dream once again, and it is familiar and not, the same and not, and history runs in a circle, echoes and rhymes)

Eret’s courtyard is indeed free of vines, just as Puffy promised. Wilbur half-expects them to be nowhere in sight, based on what Puffy said, but they are standing right there, next to a skeletal horse they’re frantically saddling, and they’re checking their communicator every now and again, with the jerky motions of someone who doesn’t particularly want to but can’t make themself stop.

Then, suddenly, they look up at the sky. Wilbur follows their gaze to the flock of crows wheeling overhead, a dark mass of beating wings, each bird barely distinguishable from the others. All of them completely, eerily silent.

Eret stands there a moment. Just staring. Wilbur can’t tell what the look on their face is, but their shoulders are tense. And then, they look back down, and realize that the lot of them are there, stumbling in under the gate, and they visibly startle.

“Hey, Eret,” Puffy says, before they can get a word in. “Can we crash? And build some gates?”

“What,” Eret says. “What is—Puffy, what is going on? How did Dream manage to kill Sam and Technoblade? Is he—” They run a hand through their hair, and then start striding forward, their cape flaring out behind them. They haven’t said anything about him yet, haven’t reacted to his presence. “He’s out, isn’t he? I was going to come and see, but he’s out?”

“He’s out,” Puffy agrees. “We were kind of hoping you’d help us out on this one.”

“Of course,” they say quickly. “Of course, anything you—anything you need.” They’re rattled, clearly, more than Wilbur has ever seen them, perhaps. “I just—how did this happen? I thought the prison was secure, I thought—are you all okay?”

“Aside from the obvious?” Puffy says. “Yeah, we’re great. You haven’t been around much lately, I don’t know how much you know about the Egg and all of that, but that’s an issue too, along with Dream. And some other stuff that I’ve got no idea about, that we really just kind of need to all sit down and talk about.”

“The Egg? I’ve—I’ve heard of it, I think. I’ve been elsewhere for a while.” Their lips twist into a smile that isn’t quite a smile. “Doing a bit of soul-searching, you might say. Found more questions than answers, unfortunately. Alright. I can get you all whatever you need, you can absolutely stay here if that’s what you’d like, but what was that about gates?”

Right. This is taking too long.

Wilbur still feels a bit outside of his body as he steps forward, but that’s alright. He’s limping, but the pain is distant, and he can let his brain work on autopilot, let his mouth move on its own without regarding the consequences, without thinking too much about

(this is Eret and you know them and they betrayed you and you hurt them and now you’re back and here is a test here is a true test it shouldn’t matter how they react to you you shouldn’t care for their opinion but you do you know you do though you pretend you don’t pretend they’re nothing but a traitor to you but you are a traitor to yourself and you know that between the two of you you are the worse and here you both are and you only need one more and everyone will be back together again like the old days like the old days those good old days)

what happens next.

“Right, then,” he says, straightening his spine and stepping up to be visible just behind Puffy, to the side and a few feet back. Eret’s head whips toward him. “To summarize: the Egg is bad, Dream is also bad, they’re now working together, also with Bad, Techno is gone, we’re all in rough shape, a mind-controlling potentially demonic entity is likely to try to take over the server, and also, I’m here, despite my best efforts. Does that paint enough of a picture for you, or should I elaborate further?”

Eret stares at him. He stares back, doesn’t let himself fidget. He’s putting the general on display, and it has never felt more like a disguise, like yet another mask,

(and didn’t he tell Tommy he wasn’t going to do this anymore?)

but a familiar one, one that’s almost comfortable. He can force himself into the general’s shoes and worry about tactics and battles and numbers and strategy, and tuck the rest of himself away for when there’s time for it. Can think of this as just another alliance to be made, a debriefing to be held rather than

(Eret traitor friend ally enemy the place in your heart is curdled and sour and you do not know if you are capable of starting anew)

and his losses are statistics and cold facts rather than

(Techno’s eyes golden and glittering and then they go dim and pale red pale and staring the light in your brother’s eyes gone out and it is not the first time you have watched a brother die in front of you but Technoblade never dies is never supposed to die never to go to dust never and you cannot make sense of it cannot make sense of the world turned on its head)

“Wilbur?” Eret asks, after a very long moment, and he doesn’t understand why their voice breaks in the way that it does. “You’re—it’s you? Not Ghostbur?”

He spreads his arms, lifting an eyebrow.

“Do I look like Ghostbur to you?” he asks.

“No,” Eret answers right away. “No, that you do not. Um, has this been a thing, or…?” They trail off, and Wilbur can’t figure out exactly what their feelings are, but it’s too late to back down, even if he wanted to.

“For a bit,” he says. “Not for too long. Can we move on? We’ve got bigger issues to deal with at the moment.”

He means multiple things, with that. He means, there’s bigger things to worry about than why I’m here. He means, there’s bigger things to worry about than our history, and as so long as we’re on the same side for the moment, it can’t matter right now. He doesn’t know if Eret catches all of that, but whether they do or not, they nod, seeming to steady themself.

“Of course,” they say. “I—for the record, it is good to see you, Wilbur.” There is genuine relief in their voice, a tone that says they’re actually glad he’s here, more than glad, even, and he really doesn’t have time to unpack that at the moment. They need a plan, and fast, and they need some goddamn gates. And medical attention, probably. The cut on Puffy’s head looks nasty, and Phil’s wings are still dripping blood, and it’s difficult for Wilbur to look at them for too long,

(grief rises up guilt rises up crushing choking your father is grounded and it is your fault)

but it concerns him, how little Phil appears to care for their current state. So there’s that to handle, and it’s almost too much, almost. Almost too much for someone who has spent the majority of the time since he’s been brought back to life cringing away from meeting people, all the confidence he once displayed gone, shrinking, left in the void or in Pogtopia or on the podium from which he announced his own defeat, perhaps. But even still, he remembers how to be the general. He can hide in the general, present the general on the outside, be useful even while he thinks he might be on the verge of collapse, internally. He has been a general, and so he shall be again.

What comes first, then?

He pulls out his comm, scrolling through the messages. There are quite a few in the general chat from just after Sam’s death message, people from all over the server demanding to know what’s going on. His eyes drift over Techno’s, then, and he winces, but keeps reading. There are even more messages after that, capitalization usage increasing dramatically, and his eyes trace over familiar names, a pang in his heart. Niki. Fundy. Quackity. Several from Eret as well. Some from names he doesn’t recognize, like this Foolish person, and someone named Hannah.

But then, they all cut off. There have been none in the past half hour. Since they escaped from the Egg.

Out of curiosity, he taps out a few words: dream and egg have teamed, regrouping at eret’s. Upon hitting send, the screen goes fuzzy, giving him an error message he’s never seen before. So comms truly are down, then, and it’s probably just as well; Dream likely knows where they are, but if he doesn’t, there’s no reason to give him the information.

(and do these old allies old friends deserve to learn of your return from cold words on a screen do you not have the courage to face them yourself face your son your son you have not seen your son)

(the last time he spoke to Fundy, he disowned him. he doesn’t know if he still has a son)

(if he does not, he has no one to blame for himself, and perhaps that is why he is too cowardly to check)

“Right, then,” he says, looking back up. “Gates are the first priority. They might not do much against whatever the fuck that thing is, but it’s better than nothing. Eret, I assume you’d know the best way to go about it?”

Eret’s lips quirk into a slight smile, one that is, perhaps, slightly sardonic.

“It is my castle,” they agree. “The more hands I have, the quicker it will go, but I can get it done.”

“Anyone who’s not bleeding profusely, help them with that, then,” he says. “Anyone who is bleeding profusely—I assume you’ve got pots somewhere, Eret?” Eret nods, gesturing toward the inside. “Anyone who is bleeding profusely gets a pot. Once we’ve got that all covered, we’ll reconvene, come up with a plan for where to go from here. Everyone got that?”

He gets a few nods, and no one dissents, so he’ll take that as a yes. His gaze travels to the kids then, standing clumped together, and Tommy’s eyes are still shadowed, and Tubbo is shifting his weight between his feet, and Ranboo looks lost, awkward, and he wishes he didn’t have to ask anything more of them. But that’s not how wars work, and this has certainly turned into a war.

(child soldiers once again, and how history echoes)

“Tubbo, Ranboo, I want you on the gates as well,” he says, and tries to soften his tone at least a little bit, even if that’s all he can do. “And then afterward—Tubbo, I need you to go through with all of us exactly what you know about—what did you call them? Dreamons?”

Tubbo looks slightly miserable, but he nods. “Right,” he says. “I can try to ward the gates if you want. With, um, anti-demon stuff. I don’t know if it’ll work. I guess last time we didn’t manage to do much of anything at all.”

“Anti-what,” Eret says, but Wilbur shakes his head.

“We don’t have time for that. Tubbo will explain later. We—”

“The fuck am I supposed to do, then?” Tommy breaks in, crossing his arms. “You haven’t given me a job.” He glares, but it is so very obvious that it’s all a front, all a show, and Tommy’s expression dares him to challenge him, but Wilbur thinks that if he does, he just might break something in him. Tommy has always been so much more fragile than he presents himself as, so much more fragile than he likes to believe he is.

(despite it all, despite it all, he is only sixteen, only a child, a child grown old before his time but a child nonetheless, and now a child who watched his brother die for him, an estranged brother perhaps but still a brother, and Tommy has always cared so much and so deeply, no matter how much he pretends otherwise)

He hasn’t given Tommy a job, and he doesn’t really intend to, because Tommy, of all people, needs to sit the fuck down and rest for a moment. They all deserve a break, but in this moment, Tommy is the one who needs it most, and also the one least likely to accept as much.

If the general gives the order, Tommy will follow it, he knows that much,

(because he made his brother into a soldier he made his brother into a soldier and soldiers follow orders)

even if he’ll be angry at him for it, but Tommy angry with him is a sacrifice he’s willing to make. And perhaps directing his anger at him will help. Perhaps it would be better for Tommy to be angry with someone within reach rather than someone out of it.

(because Tommy is hurting, and the cause of that hurt is not here, and so perhaps if Wilbur offers himself he’ll feel better, will feel more in control, because Tommy needs control, because his abuser is out, is wandering free, and his abuser has killed their brother and told him that it is his fault)

But then, Phil breaks his silence.

“I’d like him to stick with me,” he says, with a smile that is obviously strained. “I’m not going to be able to reach everything myself.” He makes a vague gesture toward his wings, still dripping blood, and there is so much of it already drying on his feathers, sticky, tacky, almost blending in with the darkness of the feathers

(but stark against the grey-white of exposed bone)

“Why the actual shit—” Tommy starts.

“Good idea, Phil,” he cuts him off. “Tommy, help him with the wings, would you?”

“Why do I have to—”

“You too, Wil,” Phil says, and his mood sours immediately. “You think I don’t see that leg? C’mon, Eret, show us to the pots.”

When faced with that, he has no choice but to agree, really.

(he wouldn’t have ignored it. he wouldn’t have. He knows better than to leave a wound untreated in wartime. Even if something whispers at him that he deserves the pain, even if the bite of it brings him closer to reality. But his better sense knows: pain is not the penance that is asked of him, not a recompense that will do anyone any good)

**********

They meet again half an hour later in Eret’s throne room. Half an hour later, and his leg is bandaged and tender and no longer an open wound, and Tommy is frowning and refusing to meet anyone’s eyes, and the state of Phil’s wings is still bothersome, because he didn’t let either of them touch them beyond what was necessary,

(and he recollects countless nights spent running his fingers through soft, silken feathers as his father told him how to preen them, told him that it was a sign of trust, an activity that only family, only flock is allowed, and now Phil will no longer let them near him, will no longer even take care of them himself and it makes him sick to his stomach to think of what has been lost)

but they are no longer bleeding, and that has to be what matters.

The throne room is not the best location for this, he thinks. It feels awkward. But it’s a room big enough to fit everyone, which is the point, big enough to fit Puffy, presence looming and forehead now bandaged, to fit Sapnap, fidgety as he is, like a caged, snarling animal, all restless energy. Big enough for Tubbo, for Tommy, for Ranboo, for Phil, for Eret and for himself, and big enough that there is an obvious gap at Phil’s right side where someone else should be standing.

Eret eyes her throne, glances at everyone else in the room, and then seats herself at its base. It’s a pithy gesture, meaningless, but Wilbur has more important things to do than to call her out on it, even though the existence of the throne itself grates against him.

“Let’s call this meeting to order, then,” he says, and Eret frowns. Perhaps she doesn’t like that he’s calling the shots in her own

(ill-gotten, dearly kept)

castle, but tough. He’s brought out the general for all of their sakes, so the general is what they’re all going to get.

(it’s a mask again and masks crack but he can keep it up for long enough he can he can they need a leader so he will lead he will lead them)

(you were so good at compartmentalizing, once, go good at shoving it all away in boxes in dark shadowy corners never to be opened to gather dust and cobwebs and faded recollections but the boxes cracked and the demon’s escaped and Pandora was too weak to stop them and it all ended in a bang and he cannot tell if hope remains but that isn’t the point because the box is opened and once opened it is not so easily closed and you are putting on a show a lie and lies come back around again they always do and you should know better than to pretend at strength you do not have you will lead them to ruin again ruin and gunpowder smoke and what gives you the right)

“Yeah, alright,” Puffy says. “Can we start by talking about—whatever that was? What were you talking about, dreamons? What’s a dreamon?”

“That sounds like a made up word,” Tommy mutters.

“I wish it were made up,” Tubbo says, and he winces when all eyes turn to him. But a moment later, he straightens, setting his shoulders squarely, holding his head up high. “I’ll tell you all what I know. Even if that turns out to be not as much as I thought.” He pauses, clearly struggling for words.

“Start from the beginning,” he suggests, and Tubbo nods at him gratefully.

“Okay, right, the beginning,” he says. “In the very beginning, me and Fundy were messing around, and we found some old books. We went through them for a laugh, and we learned about these things called dreamons.”

“Wait, that’s what they’re actually called?” Tommy interjects. “Like, properly?”

Tubbo shrugs. “It’s what the books said,” he says. “We weren’t about to argue over names. Even if it did seem like a weird coincidence. But yeah, that’s what they’re called.” His voice falls into an odd cadence here, recitative, like he’s telling a story, and Wilbur crosses his arms, gripping at his elbows. “They come from the darkness of the void, lurking around the edges of a server’s code. Once they get in, their only goal is to cause chaos and destruction. They corrupt everything they touch, and they can possess people and turn them into their puppets. They have unknowable powers, because they’re a sickness, a rot, like an infection in the code of the server itself. It’s really, really difficult to get rid of them, but it can be done if you have the right tools. Or—” He blinks, stuttering a bit, his voice landing more naturally. “We thought so, anyway.”

“What does this have to do with Dream?” Sapnap asks, stopping his pacing, looking to Tubbo with an expression in his eyes that hurts to look at, a bit, wobbly and desperate and pinched, like he already knows the answer but hopes that he’s wrong, hopes as much as he is able, even though he knows it will be fruitless.

Wilbur has put the pieces together. As best he can, anyway. And Sapnap’s not a stupid man. He can see where this is leading.

“Dream got possessed.” Tubbo sighs, gaze drifting toward the floor. “It was a whole thing. Honestly, we were surprised nobody else noticed. But we—we performed an exorcism. And it was really scary, to be honest. But it worked. We could see it leave, all oozy and black and gross, and Dream was better afterward! He was! So we thought we got it out.”

“But it tricked you?” he asks.

“I don’t understand how it could have,” Tubbo replies. “It’s not—it’s not like the kind of possession that you see in a TV show, where the demon can pretend to be the person or something like that. It’s obvious. It’s too—it’s too wrong to blend in, if that makes sense. It made his voice go all funny and deep, and the way it moved—” He shudders, and then continues, miserably, “The way it moved, there’s no way you could mistake something like that for a human. That’s why we were so sure it worked. Because afterward, he seemed back to normal.”

Something about this doesn’t make sense.

“Tubbo,” he says, wheels spinning in his mind, “when was this?”

Tubbo blinks. “Manberg days,” he says. “Um, that’s why we never told you about it, I suppose.”

He barely bats an eye at the reference. It doesn’t make sense. Because he has sensed that wrongness, as Tubbo puts it, has been sensing it from the moment he set foot in that prison cell for the first time. On some level, he knew that something was deeply wrong, even if a demonic presence was the last thing he would have guessed. But if the whole thing happened during—during that time, and the signs of possession were as obvious as Tubbo says, he would have noticed, wouldn’t he? He had plenty of interactions with Dream during that time.

(unless his own shadows stretched long, stretched far enough to cover Dream’s, to cover the thing piloting him)

But no—his shadows were of his own making, not supernatural. If anything, his mindset should have made him more receptive to suspicious wrongness, not less. So what—

(Dream smiles, and you know what it’s like, to have something whispering in your head, he says, once you let something in, there’s no going back)

“Maybe the first bit was a fakeout,” Phil suggests, arms folded, head tilted. He’s perplexed, which is worrying; it’s rare to come across a being that Phil knows nothing about. “It made itself obvious to lure you in so it could slip under the radar. Faked leaving to put your guard down, maybe.”

It’s plausible. But somehow

(and Dream stands atop the Egg and he says, he says, I tried to fight at first, but it turns out it was right all along, and he says it he says it like it’s separate from him like there is not something else something other speaking from his mouth after all and he tried to fight it he tried to fight it and what does that mean)

“They’re the same,” he breathes, and doesn’t know what he means, not quite yet, “they’re the same, and the Egg controls people, and he was talking about fighting something, about giving in—”

He runs a hand through his hair. Shakes his head.

“Wil?” Phil asks.

“Oi, Wilbur,” Tommy says, almost at the same time. But he needs to—he needs to focus as the pieces click into place, faster than he can process, and he has a conclusion but not the words yet—

He holds up a hand.

“Tubbo,” he says, “you said it can corrupt things. What did you mean by that?”

“I dunno, really,” he says. “It talked about it in the books some, but it was all weird metaphorical language. Couldn’t really makes sense of it. We were more focused on the bits that told us how to get rid of them.”

(he says, you know what the void is like, and Tubbo says that they come from the void, and)

That’s alright. He’s not sure he needs a hard answer to that, because he thinks that if one were to describe the feeling of the corruption, it would be

(it is dark and it is peaceful and there is static at the edges eating away at what makes him himself eating at his soul at his sense of self and it is what he wants, to be nothing, and he does not imagine what it would feel like if it were not what he desired, if he tried to resist it, resist the void all-consuming, all-devouring, resist the void that takes all things into itself and is never satiated)

something familiar.

“Alright,” he says, and steeples his fingers together. “Let me paint a picture for you. Someone gets possessed. You exorcise the thing. But these things can corrupt, you say. So maybe you get rid of the thing itself. Maybe Dream’s pretty much back to normal. But maybe it leaves little bits of itself behind. Maybe he’s not possessed, but maybe that doesn’t matter so much anymore. Maybe it changed him regardless. Maybe it’s still changing him, even though it’s no longer there. Maybe a corruption took root, and there wasn’t any going back from it.” He tilts his head, closes his eyes. “Suppose that the Egg is the same type of thing. Something that forced its way through the cracks of the server, something that’s been smart about it, biding its time. The things that Dream was saying reminded me a lot of what the Egg was doing, you know? Manipulating people, making them into things they aren’t, or into their worst selves.”

He strings the words together as he goes. He’s not sure he’s getting his point across. He used to be so much better at this.

“Wait, so you’re saying you think he isn’t possessed?” Sapnap asks.

“I’m saying we don’t really know,” he answers. “Not unless we get it from him. But Tubbo’s the expert here, and if he says Dream’s not acting like he’s possessed, I believe him. But even if he’s not possessed outright, that doesn’t mean there’s no—influence, perhaps.” He keeps his eyes shut; the darkness on the back of his eyelids is a natural one, but he can almost pretend that it isn’t. That it is darker, deeper.

(void)

“He was right that I know what it’s like,” he says. “I’ve felt the Egg in my head. And I was in the void for—a long time. It felt like forever. I know what it feels like, and there’s some of it in him, I think. Him and the Egg both. They’re the same kind of wrong, the same kind of unbelonging. I’ve never been possessed by a demon before, but if it’s made up of void stuff, that’s the sort of thing that stays with you. Whispering.”

He opens his eyes. Everyone is staring at him, varying expressions of horror on their faces.

He goes back over his words. In retrospect, he can see how they probably came off sounding.

“Wil,” Phil says softly.

“I’m fine,” he says, not at all convincingly, he’s sure.

(once he starts thinking of the void of the peace and of the rest it’s hard to stop even though his desires are now tinged with red and he knows better than to listen but he cannot help himself)

“This is all speculation, anyway,” he continues. “Might not matter at all, in the end, what the particulars are. We just need a way to stop them. Can dreamons be killed, Tubbo?”

Tubbo takes a moment before replying. “I don’t think so,” he says. “Fundy might remember better. But I think the only thing in what we read was the exorcism.”

“Which doesn’t help us much if Dream’s not actually possessed,” Puffy says. “Unless it might work on the Egg? If the Egg’s a—a dreamon too?”

“Worth a shot if we can get to it again,” he says, “but I don’t like risking so much on a maybe.”

“The less we mess with forces beyond our understanding, the better,” Eret says suddenly. She frowns, pushing her sunglasses further up her face. “As I said earlier, I’ve been away a good bit recently, so I haven’t been tracking the Egg’s progress as much as perhaps I should have. But I did notice an increase in activity—well. It was shortly after we tried to resurrect you, Wilbur.” She inclines her head toward him. “I fear that in our efforts, we might have interfered with something we shouldn’t have interfered with. Weakened a barrier of some kind, between our existence and—something else.”

She speaks with a strange kind of gravity. But her words make an unfortunate kind of sense.

He doesn’t look at Phil.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Tommy states. “What the fuck does that even mean?”

“I’m with Tommy on this one. What are you talking about?” Sapnap adds.

“We’re getting off track,” he says, snapping his fingers. “We’re going about this wrong. We don’t have enough information, and we don’t have enough power. Those are our problems. How do we solve them?”

“The obvious would be to get the word out,” Puffy says. “Comms are down, but we can go by word of mouth if we have to. Kinda risky, with the amount of vines on this server, but the nether portal’s right across the way. No vines in the nether, I think.”

“I have lots of old books myself,” Phil chimes in, eyes skyward. “Might be something in there to help that I’ve read and forgotten about. And I’ve got another source of info I’ve barely begun to go through. Old shit I found. It might be worth a shot.” He looks back down. “We need to go get Techno anyway.” He says the last in a tone that brooks no argument, and Wilbur doesn’t try, even if it’s perhaps not the most tactically sound option.

(he wants Techno back too, wants to lay eyes on him, hold his wrist in his hand and count his heartbeats, each one a reassurance, because he knows what it is for a brother to die and come back but that has never made it easier)

“It’s better than nothing,” he says. “Alright, I’ve got a plan, then. Some of us go to the tundra, get Technoblade, and go through whatever books Phil has. Some stay here and fortify the defenses as best we can using what Tubbo can remember that he thinks might work, and a couple of us go around through the nether and tell as many people as possible what’s going on. Gather allies, resources anything else we might need.”

It’s not much of a plan. But based on just how outclassed they are, just how little they know, just how much exhaustion shows in their faces, it might be the best plan they’re going to get for now. To throw themselves back into a battle so soon would be folly.

It never sits well with him to bank so much on a hope, though, a mere possibility that things will go their way.

(but certainties were ripped out from under him the moment Dream killed the unkillable, the moment he saw his brother  crumple to ash before his eyes)

“Great,” Puffy says, grimacing. “What could possibly go wrong with that?”

The silence that greets that statement serves perfectly well as a response.

He closes his eyes again. The darkness is no comfort.

[nemesis-is-my-middle-name]

Amethyst and Emerald Eyes

Arthur's used to his friends dragging him to creepy places. Doesn't mean he likes it, but he's learned how to handle it. 

  The cave Vivi's found this time is... something else, though. There's no evidence of previous human occupation – it's untouched, and yet something with it is wrong. Everything is stained purple, even the mist drifting from the entrance, and the rock face towers above them like a yawning mouth. It feels dangerous, like something is warning them to leave. 

  None of the others notice it. Vivi bounces out excitedly, Mystery close at her heels. Kay strolls up to the entrance unfazed, his flashlight clicking idly on and off. 

  “What are you waiting for?” he calls after a moment, not even turning around. 

  “I- I don’t… there’s s-s-something… wrong with this place.” 

  “Oh, don’t start that again. Do you want to be here, or not?” He starts walking again. 

  Arthur can’t just leave them alone, what if someone gets hurt? But… his skin itches as he drags himself closer to the cave, scars aching and growing tense. He doesn’t want to be here, he wants to leave– 

  –but everyone else is going inside, and he can’t leave without them. 

  He forces himself to keep moving. 

---

Lewis is pulled from his slumber by the feeling of an unfamiliar presence in the cave. The gemstones around him flare to life as he wakes, their glow turning the rock above him to pink-tinted stars. 

He sighs, and rises through the cavern, drifting towards the intruders. He just has to get them to leave, and then he can go back to sleep. 

  On the lower path are two – people? A twenty-something girl and her dog, it seems at first glance, but… the dog burns with raw power when he gets close, and the girl is blue and cold, driving him back seemingly without noticing. He shivers and floats away, turning his attention to the other points of life he senses. 

  There’s two on the upper path as well  – young men, a little older than he was when… he shakes his head to dispel the sudden, uncomfortable familiarity. They’re both carrying flashlights. One’s tinged in shades of green, strolling ahead, perfectly calm, and the other, done in gold… Lewis can already feel the fear radiating off him, if it wasn’t obvious from the way he’s hunched in on himself with a white-knuckle grip on the flashlight. He’s almost stopped in the crossroads, the other walking off without him. 

  “If you want to leave, hurry up so we can get this over with,” says the first one. His voice is as relaxed as the rest of him, but there’s a dangerous undercurrent to it. 

  As soon as Lewis brushes near him, he can feel his thoughts. It takes a moment to process, and then he's sickened to his core. 

  Sucker has no idea what's coming, the mind whispers, he's gonna walk right into it. Goddamn I can't wait, I'm finally gonna be rid of this leech. If only he'd just hurry up, you'd think he'd want to get this over with, just a little closer you scrawny bastard so I can grab you by that stupid hair and kick you into those rocks- 

  He tears himself away from the thoughts in a panic. This visitor to his cave – he's planning a murder. He has to stop this. 

  First, he thinks to possess the would-be killer. To do what, he isn’t exactly sure – just stop them, whatever comes after, he’ll figure out as he goes. So he gathers all his power, a swirling, glowing purple smoke, and reaches out. 

  …only to find the murderer’s mind impenetrable. Like smooth glass against his nonexistent hand, any attempt he makes to get through into this person’s head falls against an unmoving barrier. He's too strong - dammit, why did this have to be the person he finally fails against? Why now?

  The gold one approaches closer behind them, finally finding his footing, and prompting a renewed urgency in Lewis. 

  “’s fucking fr-freezing in here,” he comments, oblivious to the looming danger. 

  “Really? I’m not cold at all,” Green responds with hardly a glance over his shoulder. 

  “Of course you’re not cold,” Lewis hisses, “you’re surrounded by a fire spirit.” 

  Gold jumps, attention snapping to the vague area Lewis is currently occupying. “Th- d-did you hear that?” 

  Did he... hear him? How?

  He’s a medium, Lewis realizes suddenly, the fact clicking into place. No wonder he’s afraid – he knows they’re not alone here. Green, clearly, has no such ability and no such concerns, and has defaulted to flat-out ignoring his companion as he presses on. 

  He ought to pay more attention. Frustration slips in alongside worry as he thinks about it further. He wanders into dangerous, likely-haunted places, disregards the person who might actually warn him about the danger, and then has the- the audacity to call him a leech? 

  Gold is approaching panic now, with the wide-eyed stare of a trapped animal, but he keeps following Green anyway. He wants nothing more than to help him, to at least stop what’s coming, most of all he doesn’t want to watch this- 

  -an idea forms as he drifts, aimless and despondent, after the two visitors. He may not have been able to reach Green, but maybe there’s something else he can do. But- what if something goes wrong- 

  But then he realizes they’ve reached the end of the road. The cliff opens out before them. It’s now or never. 

  As he was expecting, it’s almost unnervingly easy to slip into Gold’s mind. All he has to do is visualize himself reaching down and taking his hand, and any defenses he has cave instantly and allow him inside. For a moment, Gold locks up, registering something wrong in his head – and then Lewis takes over and the body relaxes again.

  I'm sorry about the intrusion, but I’m not going to hurt you. I’m here to help, he whispers to Gold, feeling his panic build with his sudden loss of control. 

  All he gets in return is a frantic no no no please don’t please don’t hurt me, and he realizes he won’t be able to reassure him, not like this. He's already too afraid of him. 

  “Hey, c’mere,” says Green, lifting his head from where he’s looking over the cavern. “You can see Vi from here.” 

  They draw closer to Green, eventually settling behind him with not a foot between them. Lewis debates, for a moment, what to do; he’s still not quite sure, when he speaks. 

  “I know what you’re going to do.” 

  A slight, almost imperceptible jerky tilt of the head, Green just barely resisting snapping it around to stare at him. He hears his mouth open with a soft click, but it’s another beat before he speaks. “…what?” 

  He hadn’t realized how strange talking through a mouth would be, and the unfamiliarity adds to his nerves. “I… I can’t allow it.” 

  Green scoffs at that, standing up again and turning around to face them, speaking as he does. “And what are you going to do about it? Go run and cry to Vivi, so you can make yourself look even worse for her? You're certainly not going to do anything by yourself. I mean-" A light, sarcastic laugh. "You probably don't even want to. So why not just save us both the trouble?"

  And then he shifts his weight, and it’s barely the beginning of a movement but it’s still all too easy for Lewis to predict what comes next. 

  Gold is stronger than he was expecting, and Green isn’t ready for the blow. And overconfidence had him standing too close to the edge, and the single step he takes back in response is one step too many. All of a sudden, he’s falling. 

  Lewis is all too familiar with this drop, but he still nearly forgets what’s coming next. The crunch of bone and muscle tearing apart echoes through the cave, followed by a scream – coming not from the dead man, he realizes, but someone else. The other person he’d seen on the lower path. 

  He takes a couple steps back from the ledge – away from that gruesome sight. He’s starting to regret this decision, to second-guess himself – but the only alternative he can see is Gold dying, and he… he can still feel Gold, innocent and frightened, alongside him in this mind. There’s no way Green deserves to live over him. Not someone who’d murder – from the looks of things, someone who considered him a friend. 

  I can go now. He tries to reach out to the soul. I'm sorry again about the intrusion, I just couldn't watch him kill you.

  The response he gets makes him flinch - a wave of terror that would have been a wail if they were physical, wordless and honest panic. Does he still not understand? 

  A sound from behind makes him spin around. It’s coupled with a flash of power that makes him take a step back. He recognizes the dog, but… it’s not a dog anymore. It’s massive, and the way it’s standing is obviously hostile. 

  He holds up his hands. “Hold on, I’m not- I’m trying to help-“ 

  “Silence, monster!” it snarls, stepping forward. “Not one more word! I already know what you are.” 

  “Wait-“ 

  The distance between them is closed in an instant. A weight slams down on his – Gold’s – chest, and he feels something snap under the force, closely followed by sharp stabs when claws bite into flesh. The sensation is familiar, and he’s not sure if it’s that or the sheer force that keeps him from breathing. 

  Teeth bite into the arm he’d first reached through, and he isn’t sure if it’s him or Gold that’s screaming. 

  All at once he’s yanked out of the body, and his spectral form flickers, mingling with the blood in the air. He reins in his fire before it can do any damage, staring in horror at the scene before him. This – he didn’t want this – why – who are these people? 

  A shout echoes from behind the monster, echoing and unintelligible, and it starts and looks back. Suddenly it’s gone, replaced with the small dog from before. 

  Lewis is torn between running and staying – his instincts are screaming at him to get away from that thing – but Gold’s rapidly losing blood, and if he dies here too, it’ll be his fault, and… and then he’s just caused two deaths. 

  Then the blue girl from before appears. The dog doesn’t say anything, just stays close and watches silently. It takes her a moment to process – and then she’s moving, pulling off a scarf and working to bandage the wound. 

  He isn’t sure even that will be enough. He can feel Gold’s life fading, and his bright colors are dimming to near-grey. 

  He didn’t want this. He spares another glance to the not-dog, who seems too preoccupied with reassuring Blue to notice him now – reassuring her and not the person he’s very nearly killed. Blue, at least, doesn’t seem to know what happened. She’s reacting as if some outside force has caused all of this. 

  Then they’re leaving the cave, and he’s expecting to be left drifting there. But something pulls him along after them, staying just a few feet from Gold. 

  He stays tethered to that dimming golden light as they speed away from his decades-long home in the cave.

[baoshan-sanren]

Chapter 2

of the wwx emperor au which probably won’t get a title before we get to chapter 30

Prologue

Chapter 1

By the time the small contingent of the Lan Sect leaves YiLing proper and begins their trip to the Immortal Mountain, the sun is slowly sinking beyond the horizon. They will be arriving late, but late is better than not showing at all, and the Lan Sect, more than any other, cannot afford to make missteps.

They had left six days ago to travel a distance that should have taken four days to cross. Lan XiChen now thinks that no advanced departure would have made a difference. Every step of the way, in every town they passed, in every inn where they had attempted to take a meal or beds for the night, they had met with some form of resistance. A few times, the innkeepers had been kind enough to come up with a believable excuse. It is the Emperor’s birthday, the second largest festival of the year. Many people were traveling to YiLing. There is simply no way to accommodate them all on their travels.

Most of the time, however, the Lan Sect had not been given the pretense of courtesy. In MoLing, where the Lan Sect had spent decades serving the populace, the innkeeper had gone as far as to spit at their feet. WangJi had drawn his sword, and the guards of the Mo Clan, drunkenly occupying two of the tables, had drawn theirs in response. It had taken XiChen nearly two hours to talk their way out of MoLing without any blood being shed.

They had stopped rarely since then, and only when necessary. Lan LiJun’s horse had thrown a shoe outside YunMeng; it had taken them an entire day to find a farrier who would not slam a door in their face. A particularly vicious autumn storm had washed away a bridge outside YiLing; not a single person they passed would tell them if there is another, or where there may find the safest way to cross the river.

They had finally arrived in YiLing at midday, and to their relief, found that there were still street vendors who did not care what robes they wore, as long as they could pay. But YiLing is the home of the Immortal Mountain, the home of the Empress, and there is not a single region in the world where CangSe SanRen had been more fervently loved.

There had been no use in looking for accommodations in YiLing, although they did try, wasting hours of precious daylight. In the end, the majority of their escort was left to camp outside the town itself, where they are likely to spend the next seven days sleeping on the ground with the sky as their cover.

Their invitation, unlike the ones issued to other large sects, only included the Sect Leader and the Young Masters of the Lan Sect. With their father in seclusion, and the attitude toward the Gusu Lan so hostile, uncle had made this particular trip alone for the past six years. XiChen does not know why this year is different, and he does not dare ask.

Uncle had borne all the indignities of the trip with single-minded perseverance. By his composure alone, no one would notice that anything at all is amiss. WangJi, on the other hand, had grown stiffer as the days went by, his face perpetually tight, filled with helpless fury. The indignities to himself he can bear well enough; XiChen had seen him endure more than once. But he is still not accustomed to tolerating the insults to those he cares for, and XiChen worries that his little brother will not learn to bend before he breaks.

Although they push their exhausted horses as hard as they dare, the night has fully fallen by the time they reach the foothills. The lights of the two watchtowers are the most welcome sight XiChen has seen since leaving Cloud Recesses. He does not doubt that the following seven days will hold much unpleasantness, and that further slights will be heaped on them all, but he is willing to bear it all in exchange for a night not spent on the cold, unforgiving ground.  

The guards clearly do not expect any further arrivals so late in the night, and more than one sneers at the sight of the Lan Sect robes. The highest ranking officer, his lion badge insignia on full display, studies their invitation for a very long time, despite the fact that it contains only three lines and the official seal.

The night is cold. XiChen had dismounted when uncle did, and now he feels the cold ground biting at his feet, the wind cutting across his robes. Ordinarily, he finds the cold easy to tolerate, but he has been doing so for six days now, and as the minutes stretch slowly, it is beginning to wear him down. He resists the urge to hunch his shoulders, least the guards take it for deference.

Finally, the officer hands the invitation back.

“This is no longer valid.”

XiChen is convinced that he had misheard. He waits for uncle to demand clarification, but uncle is silent and unmoving. WangJi must have moved however, because his horse stomps at the ground in irritation.

“I do not understand,” XiChen says, as it seems that no one else is willing to speak.

“The invitation is no longer valid. You were to arrive on the last day of the lunar cycle.”

“But-- that is today,” XiChen says.

For a few moments, he is genuinely confused. Twenty Sect members had left Gusu on the same day, and traveled together for the last six days. They could not have all miscounted the days.

“No,” the officer says firmly, “The last day of the lunar cycle was yesterday.”

It takes him another few moments to understand something that, he now thinks, uncle must have understood right away. The reason the officer had taken so long to study the invitation. The reason he had made them wait for nearly an hour.

For the first time in days, after all the humiliations and insolence tolerated with equanimity, he feels a cold thread of anger coil in his chest. He pushes it down however, determined to stay calm.

“There was an incident outside YiLing,” he says, “A bridge that was washed away by a storm. I am afraid it delayed our travel.”

“You must be mistaken,” the guard says, “No such neglect could have occurred under the care of the current YiLing magistrate.”

WangJi’s horse stomps at the ground again, and XiChen resists the urge to look back. He does not want to see what expression his brother is wearing, but he is willing to wager that it will not help their predicament.

“What is this?” a voice comes form the darkness, and the guards all stiffen at once.

They turn and bow deeply, the contrast to the discourteous reception given to Lan QiRen made even more blatantly obvious by the gesture.

“General Nie,” the officer greets.

A man emerges from the darkness, mounted on a war horse as tall as XiChen himself. His own mare, a nervous creature on the best of days, tries to skitter away in fright. It takes him a few moments to settle her, then offer a bow himself, his face now hot with embarrassment. Uncle’s horse had remained cool and still, and WangJi’s had been easily restrained. Only Xianqiao had made a fuss.

By then, Nie MingJue had dismounted as well. He bows, the first courtesy given to the Gusu Lan since the day they had left Cloud Recesses.

“What is the issue?” he addresses the officer, and the man stutters in response.

Nie MingJue does not seem to possess a great store of patience. He only listens to the officer stammer for a few moments before that patience runs out.

“Nonsense,” he barks, “Do you intend to deny me entrance as well?”

The officer looks absolutely terrified at the idea.

“Keeping guests out in the wind over nonsense,” MingJue spits out coldly, “Useless. Get back to your post. You!” he barks at another guard, the man nearly jumping out of his skin at being addressed, “Take their horses.”

The officer does not waste time scurrying back to the watchtower. Their horses are taken away with speed that would be humorous in any other situation.

Passing his own reins to another guard, Nie MingJue clears his throat, and addresses uncle, “Sect Leader, if you would follow me.”

The thousands of steps leading up to the Immortal Mountain City are well-lit, delicate lanterns swaying on either side, stretching their shadows long. For the first time since his arrival, Nie MingJue’s face is fully visible, and XiChen realizes that the man is much younger than he had expected him to be.

He has heard stories of the Nie Sect Leader. Gossip is forbidden at Cloud Recesses, but unlike his younger brother, XiChen does occasionally leave Gusu. It is hard to completely ignore gossip in winehouses and inns, where the alcohol only makes tongues looser and voices louder.

The man who had descended from butchers, but had managed to rise to the rank of a General under the current Emperor, is one of the favorite topics among the ordinary people. Nie MingJue is considered to be a ruthless strategist and a terrifying force in battle, a man of uncertain temperament and unshakeable convictions. But he is also described as seven feet tall, with eyes made of fire, and multiple scars marring his face.

There are no scars on Nie MingJue’s face that XiChen can see. Although he is tall, he is not much taller than XiChen himself. He is certainly more courteous than any Sect Leader XiChen has met so far; the hard planes of his face may look unforgiving, but XiChen thinks they suit him well, and--

Nie MingJue meets his eyes, and XiChen looks away, flustered.

He feels that they should thank Nie MingJue for his interference, but it is not on him to do so, and uncle is still silent, his expression unreadable.

At the gate, Nie MingJue leaves them in the care of servants who will escort them to their lodgings. He bows again before departing, and if it seems that his eyes linger a little longer on XiChen than they do on the others, XiChen is sure that his imagination is playing tricks on him.

[yan-purgatory]

Patient is the Night

Pairing: Suho x reader

Admin: ღ

Word Count: 2k

Note: We are deeply sorry for the lack of posting recently. As you can imagine, it’s not easy being a three person team! However, we are going to do our best to post more in the future. This was actually a commission I wrote as part of a fundraising campaign for the BLM movement - you can find more details on this on my blog @flowesona​. 

Her clothes were way more comfortable than usual. That was the first thing (Y/N) had noted when she woke up, in a completely different house to her own. She was wearing a negligee made out of fine slippery silk, that was soft to the touch. (Y/N) was entranced for a moment, running her fingers through it without the question of why she was wearing it plaguing her.

But she could only stay curled up in the king sized bed for so long - the growling of her stomach provided a good motive to get up and explore. It was only as she peeled back the covers and heard a groan she realised someone was sleeping next to her. (Y/N) paused her escape to observe her companion. To put it simply, he was stunning. Glowing skin, silky dark hair and perfect plush lips. 

‘Now is not the time to get distracted. I need to get out of here, wherever I am!’

(Y/N) scorned herself, as she tried to remember where she was last. All she could recall was getting into her car after a long day of work. And she could not recall seeing a man like the one beside her ever before in her life!

Wanting answers she finally rose out of bed, floorboards creaking slightly underneath her feet. That noise was enough to make the man stir, eyes creaking open to observe the disturbance.

“(Y/N), come back to bed. It’s way too early to get up.” He muttered, reaching for her arm and pulling her back down onto the bed. His arms wrapped around her, pressing her to his body as he sighed in content.

“Who are you? And how do you know my name?” The man opened his eyes once again, a warm sleepy smile on his face.

“I’m your boyfriend. You can’t possibly have forgotten about your precious Suho, right?”

~ღ~

It was almost picturesque. The sun was beating down, there was a warm gentle breeze, and Junmeyon’s chest made the perfect pillow. (Y/N) had started to drift off into sleep, when he suddenly sat up.

“Someone is here.” He said, his expression hardened into a frown. Junmyeon didn’t often frown, and it really didn’t suit his face - seeing him so uncharacteristically upset unsettled (Y/N) slightly.

“How do you know that?” She murmured, still reluctant to leave her happy daze.

“I can hear them. Heavy footed bastards.” Junmyeon sighed, standing up and leaving (Y/N) to bring herself back into reality.

“I’m sure it’s just the wind. Or some animals. Please, I don’t want to go back home yet.” She whined. Junmyeon didn’t even flinch.

“Stay right here. Don’t move an inch.” He commanded, and like that he was gone, stalking away with dark intent.

At first, the most of (Y/N)’s worries was that she was cold. After all, the sun had gone in, and she no longer had Junmyeon’s embrace to keep her warm. The picnic blanket had to act as a suitable substitute, the warm tartan felt providing some sort of comfort though it couldn’t hold a candle to her boyfriend.

He’d been so sweet recently. Truly, he wanted her to see his love. From bringing home flower bouquets purchased at the farmer’s market in the nearby town, to spending hours pouring over his cook books to make her favourite childhood dishes. And at his height of generosity, he offered to take her into the woods for a picnic. (Y/N) had initially been skeptical of his offer; she was sure he’d find an excuse not to do it, a work obligation or bad weather. But - sure to his word - he’d packed up a basket with an assortment of delicious foods and a flask of tea, and had led her down the barely trodden path into a movie-like clearing.

His intentions were pure. But his sudden disappearance marred the occasion, as (Y/N) waited for him. Seconds turned into minutes, into hours. The sun was starting to set, and there was no sign of him. 

Maybe it was a cruel trick. A punishment for some unknown misdeed - she’d confessed to him a few days that she was afraid of being alone in the dark, to which he’d promised she’d never have to spend another night by herself. But those words were empty now, as it was growing increasingly dark and she couldn’t see him. 

(Y/N)’s eyes flickered to the barely trodden path from which they’d arrived at the clearing. If she squinted, she could follow the path for about a hundred yards, before it winded out of sight. If only she’d paid attention, then she could dash back to the comfort of their home.

Maybe that’s where he went.

The haunting thought rattled her brain. Junmyeon could have forgotten her, and after investigating the sound he’d return to their home before the sunset.

The idea of being abandoned made (Y/N) let out a sob, her eyes filling with tears. He didn’t leave her with anything, just the basket filled with some empty containers and a meagre blanket. Perhaps it was a Hansel and Gretel situation, and Junmyeon had just wanted to rid himself of her.

(Y/N) staggered to her feet. She’d be damned if she was to die alone in a forest. She had to fight her way back to civilisation. Even if Junmyeon didn’t want her, someone surely would?

Abandoning the warmth of the picnic blanket, she started to tread carefully towards the path, shivering with fear. The darkness had really started to set in at that point, and even the slightest crack of a twig or call of an owl was enough to scare the life out of (Y/N).

She started to regret leaving the blanket behind, as goosebumps rose on her arms in response to the biting cold. She could only rub her hands along her arms and hope that she would stumble into humanity at some point. The insecure thoughts in her head were almost bubbling over, so much so she was barely paying attention to her surroundings and not evening noticing when the path was no longer under her feet and instead she was trudging through twigs and dirt.

Her attention was brought back as she felt her foot becoming stuck on something - a stray branch or exposed root - and she fell to the floor letting out a cry of pain. Her ankle was severely twisted, becoming red and hot to the touch, and (Y/N) wanted nothing more than for Junmyeon to emerge from the darkness, to tell her he was sorry and to whisk her away to the warmth of their home. She couldn’t hold her grudge against him when her body was in pain. 

“Suho? Suho? Where are you?” The young woman called out to no avail. All she heard in response was a rustling of the bushes and - fearing it was a predator ready to eat her up - she scrambled to her feet and staggered away as fast as she could with the aching of her limb becoming more prominent by the second.

Eventually, after what felt like hours of limping she heard a voice. Not just any voices. She could recognise it clearly and even in the darkness she could make out two figures. One hunched over the other one, which seemed to be unmoving.

She attempted to speed up her pace to reach them faster, but the aching pain in her limp only meant she could attempt a limp stagger, before falling onto her knees.

“Suho! Suho, please help me! Please, don’t leave me alone!” (Y/N) cried out, hoping he would listen. Some part of her still longed for him, even if he had left her all alone.

The hunched over figure raised its head, seeing (Y/N) injured form and instantly making its way to see her.

As it approached her, she could make out Junmyeon’s features clearer, although there was something slightly different about his face than when she’d seen him hours before.

“Suho? What did I do wrong? Please, just save me already!” (Y/N) cried, as he knelt beside her. His gentle fingers caressed her face. She flinched in response, as she felt some warm liquid transfer from his digits to her face. 

“(Y/N), I thought I told you to stay put. Look at what’s happened to you.” Junmyeon cooed, his eyes trailing to see her injured leg. 

“I-I was so scared. It was cold and dark and I was all alone! I’m so sorry Suho, I couldn’t do it.” She cried in response, shivering as he scooped her up into his arms. He just tutted as she nestled her face into his chest, not caring about how his white shirt was stained.

~ღ~

“I need to see it properly, my love.” Junmyeon caressed her ankle gently, trying to get his lover to stretch it out fully so he could treat the wound. 

(Y/N) shook her head, tears already leaking out at the excruciating pain. 

“It’ll get infected if I don’t apply disinfectant. (Y/N), you don’t have a choice.” Junmyeon’s firm voice was enough to coax her into offering up the full area of injury for inspection.

“My poor love.” He offered comforting words as he cleaned the wound, applied the disinfectant, wrapped it up in bandages. “You’ll need to rest for a few days hmm? No more going out for at least a month.” 

(Y/N) stayed quiet, her lip still quivering slightly.

“I’m sorry it had to be this way. If you’d stayed put then-”

“Do you hate me?”

The words hung in the air, as Junmyeon tried to process the accusation.

“What?”

She shrunk back, suddenly losing all gall she had.

“(Y/N), I love you more than anything in the world. Please, don’t ever think otherwise.”

“Why did you leave me yesterday?” She asked cautiously.

“There was some business to take care of. But it was all for us. I promise, (Y/N).” Junmyeon planted a sweet kiss on her lips.

She finally smiled back at him.

“I love you.”

“You know I love you-” Junmyeon’s declaration was cut off by the shrill ring of the doorbell. “I’ll be right back.”

He gave her one last kiss to quell her fears before leaving the room. She heard him welcoming the visitor with a loud, friendly greeting, before a more sombre hushed voice interrupted his. 

Their conversation was muffled through the door, though she could tell through Junmyeon’s tone that the visitor was the bearer of some sad news.

(Y/N) wanted to hear what they were talking about. Junmyeon should trust her, and what he knows she should know. Even if he wasn’t prepared to divulge in the details of how he spent the time away from her, she wanted to know.

She pushed herself to her feet, wincing at the pain when she put the weight on her foot. Hobbling to the door, she pressed her ear to the wood, hoping to make out a bit more of the conversation. Through opening the door a sliver, she could hear exactly what they were saying.

“You’re expecting me to believe this is all a coincidence, Mr Kim?” A deep voice posited.

“I had no knowledge nor involvement in the death of your comrade. Send my regards to Byun’s wife, and if you’ll excuse me-”

“How did you know his name?”

The tension was so thick you’d need a saw to cut it at the very least.

“I’m sorry, you must have misheard me. Now, if you don’t mind leaving my premises.” Junmyeon’s voice had gotten a lot sharper.

“There are things you’re not telling me. We can do this here, or we can talk at the station-”

There was a loud bang. (Y/N) flung open the door to see that the visitor - a detective, by the looks of it - was lying dead at Junmyeon’s feet, a smoking gun in her boyfriend’s hands.

“Sorry, my love. You weren’t supposed to see that.” 

[kittyspring-creates]

teaser fic, here’s a tease on what I’m working on

(after chp 321)

That was it, with the appearance of class 1-A. There whole plan was shattered. But no one could really be mad about it. In retrospect it was a terrible plan. Using some 16 year old kid as bait for a league of villain's that had effectively shaken and killed many hero's. That had been escaping them for over a year. It was a bad plan. Everyone involved could tell. Just by sharing glances that they all thought the same. Another mark on their ever growing failure. This was the end. No more running around trying to lure them out. It was time to go back to plan B. General search. Even if it was going to be worthless. But for now they needed to go home. Tired and dirty from living in cars for the passed month. Sleep deprived from the constant moving and lack of trade off for the drivers seat.

Best Jeanist drove through the town, his passenger seat taken up by Hawks. The skinny man no longer needing his oxygen tank. But the device still sat by his feet. Rattling every know and again when the number three would turn or hit uneven asphalt. The blond did nothing to stop it. His marked eyes, bare of his usual makeup, heavy with each blink. Instead of resting against the glass he just stared out at the passing scenery. In the back of the drivers car sat the number one hero. Taking up his whole back seat, hunched over with his wrists on his knees. The man stared down at the dirty floor. Freshly cleaned from all the garbage that had collected but still looked filthy. His expression was unseen, though it was obvious what he was thinking about. Not just how their plan failed, but how he let down his son once again. Always chasing the acceptance of his youngest but always messing it up. This time was harsher then the rest. Because he had kept Midoriya from the teen. Had allowed him to put himself in danger and push himself till he was wrecked. Bloody and torn. Till he no longer looked like a hero. Solidifying the youngers notion that he had to do everything alone. It seemed there was no coming back from that mistake in his sons eyes.

The blond man turning the cars wheel let out a loud exhale. Presenting his own turmoil to the others if they were paying attention. That everything was for not and all they did was worsen an already bad situation. That the man was at a loss of how to fix anything. His friends, his own status, society. The car stayed silent till they reached the vacant street in fukuoka. The small man blinked with recognition as his brain processed the scenery. He sat up to stare out the window shield. Waiting till they arrived at his rather large house. Except he couldn't see it where ti was suppose to be. Best Jeanist halted the car rather harshly, jerking his passenger's. But they weren't annoyed by it. The three hurried out of the car. Hawks was the quickest, sprinting to his stone gate. The sight shocked him, erasing any exhaustion he had been fighting in the vehicle. His sing with his name was torn off the wall, but he barely noticed. To busy staring up at the burnt structure that barely stood soundly. The inside black and hallowed, majority of the building laid in rubble and ash on the property. He walked onto the pieces. Barely recognizing what was what. What use to be his living room, his kitchen, his mothers side of the house. His bedroom. All of it was gone. Left behind was just a shell, an outline of what once was. Decorated with spray paint. Words aggressively stating 'fake' 'not a hero' 'hero's don't kill' 'die' 'we don't need you' and 'killer'. He stared at them, his expression blank. Though it was clear the words hurt. How could they not, when he gave everything for the people and they threw his mistake in his face. Destroying what life he had built.

He kicked some wood lightly. Setting his hands in his pockets. "Good lord, I never thought anyone would resort to this. Burning down your own home" Jeanist muttered, shocked and speaking his mind rather then to the man. Hawks let out a long breath, his shoulders sinking. "Hawks" Endeavors deep voice called out in the dark. "It's fine, it never felt like a home anyway. It was more for my mom then anything. But...she's gone now so it almost seems fitting" the blond stretched then turned to the two with a smile on his face. "Well looks like I'm crashing at a motel or Jeanist's car again" he spoke lightly, a laugh in his sentence. But it did nothing to reassure the two that he was really ok with losing everything. "Was there nothing here of value to you" the fashionable hero asked. "Hmm no, just some cloths. Which I guess I'll have to buy some now. Eh needed a new wardrobe anyway" he continued to smile. As if it was nothing. As if his life wasn't just torn away and left with the smell of burnt in the air. Endeavor looked up at what was left of the place while the other man looked down at the ruble under their feet. "Come on, dwellings no fun. Take number one home, I'll find a motel or something" the small man spoke. Waving off their worry. He dug his hands in his pockets then started heading to his gate. Seeing the burn marks let on the inside.

"I don't think that's wise, not because your feathers still haven't grown back but I don't think its a good idea for any hero to be wondering on their own right now" Jeanist told, his voice slightly muffled by his collar. "Hakamada is right, it's not a good idea for anyone to be alone right now" Endeavor echoed, crossing his arms over his chest. The blond in front of them just smiled, hiding his reaction to their concern. "Aw you worry about me that much big guy" Hawks joked. Instead of his usual reaction to the man jokes, number one glanced to the side. A memory playing in his head of the three of them in Jeanist's car. They were fallowing a petty criminal, searching for any trouble along the way. As usual the large man was seated in the back. With the smaller hero beside him. His rough hands laid on a laptop keyboard, unmoving as the blond snored silently. His head rattling against the window, his oxygen mask hiding his face. Endeavor remembered thinking it was the first time he had seen the man sleep since he left the hospital. His makeup long gone, showing bruises on his face from the recent battle. A growing tiredness form on his skin. The expression changed drastically as the blond jolted awake. Eyes blowing wide as eh tossed the laptop. With no warning he pushed open the door of the moving car and barreled out. The movement so fast the other two barely had time to react. Jeanist hit the break and swerved the car by accident. Endeavor put the lap top on the now empty seat then hoped out of the car himself. To late he concluded. The blond had torn off his mask and was now vomiting on the ground. Shaking as he held his knees. It was a jarring scene for both hero's having to watch. Waiting for their college to finish empty his stomach until they could hydrate him. It was also the last time he had noticed the man sleep in their month long car ride.

Endeavor meet the mans golden eyes, the color nearly useable in the dark. No street lamp to illuminate them, just the hidden stars from the cities pollution and the dim moon. "Get in the car Hawks" he ordered. "Geez so bossy, aye aye sir" the blond chuckled. But it sounded so hoarse, like it was alot of effort to do so. The three walked back to the car. Trying to figure out what to do next.

[blissfulalchemist]

Salvation’s Two Paths Ch. 12

Here we go again guys! I’ve had this for like months but finally finished it! And if I look at it any more I’m gonna hate it Hope you guys enjoy! Ao3

6.5k words

“Look Trey, I know how this all looks but-,” the slam of a car door startled the two of them. Odd for them to have heard it considering how far away it seemed to be. The woods remained silent as the pair listened closely, still as if all the creatures knew what was about to happen. Whoever it was that had come for them knew they had given the two a warning, the thought sent a chill down their spines. “Trey you have to get out of here,” Catlina hissed, grabbing onto his arm, pulling them to the ground. 

“Not without you,” Trey whispered, grabbing onto her hand. “It’s time for you to get out anyway,” his eyes looked up at her pleading, “Time to come home. If not for me than for him.”

Cat pulled her hand back, shaking her head, “No. Not yet. I can’t leave just yet.” They shuffled to the back door of the abandoned cabin. “But you need to go. Right now before they have a chance to take you too.”

“I won’t leave without you,” his eyes were wide pleading with her, “I can’t stand the idea of what will happen to you if you stay.”

“Look if there’s any chance that he’s going to wake up soon, I need you there to protect him. Same goes for your brothers, someone needs to make sure they stay safe.” She placed a hand on his cheek and a small smile on her lips, “I’ll be fine. Trust me.”

“Cat you should know,” Trey said, pushing back some of his blonde hair.

Cat pushed a paper into his hand, “If you need anything, go to this location and wait for a man with shields tattooed on his right arm.”

“Cat, wait,” he pressed.

Footsteps neared the front of the cabin, Cat’s eyes going wide, “You need to go. Now!” She hissed, pushing Trey out of the door. He hesitated in moving, his blue eyes pleading with her, she shook her head. Trey exhaled giving a final nod, making a break for the treeline. Once she saw him lost within it Cat stood, grabbing the knife on the table, placing it in her back pocket ready to fight if needed, though she doubted she’d get the chance too. 

She lied to Trey, there was no safety for her now and a slim chance at mercy. She had been caught and now she was going to pay the price for her actions. She had managed to stay out of the confession room, by playing obedient, innocent, anything to keep them off her back, her time was up now. With this act of defiance being the cause….she’d be put through anything worse than other potential members of the faith. Or she’d suffer the same fate as…. 

The door opened slowly, the end of a gun the first thing she saw. She took a deep breath, her muscles tensing in case they decided to just be done with her. Two men, big and brawny, their faces covered by red ski masks, came through the door, stopping to stand in front of her. Joseph took his time walking up behind them, “I thought you’d try to run,” he said, his voice that same icy calm as when they first spoke in private. 

Cat smiled, relaxing her face, “Why should I? I’ve done nothing wrong.” 

“I know you’re lying,” he returned her smile, “but I guess that’s for my brother to decide in the end.” He nodded to the two men, as Cat watched trying to figure out what their plan was to restrain her. 

She took an instinctive step back as they came closer to her, their arms outstretched. Their grip was tougher than she would have expected, all sense of calm lost as she fought back, “There’s no need to treat me this way. I’ll go willingly you know,” she jerked around, feeble attempts to get their hands off of her. 

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Joseph said, his back to her, “You’re the enemy now. So you will be treated as such.” He turned his head looking back at her before his eyes flicked to her left. She looked with him seeing a syringe coming for her neck. Cat’s eyes went wide as she fought harder in their grip, her legs looking for leverage to kick out or bring one of their hands closer to bite them. Anything! There was no telling what would happen if she wasn’t conscious. That scared her more than anything. The sting on the right side of her neck proved that her actions were ineffective against them. 

I should have known they’d both have one…..

 Her eyes hurt as she looked up to a bright overhead light her vision blurry. Her head hurt feeling the chill of concrete beneath her. She inhaled sharply, hands quickly going to her stomach feeling the taut skin still in place. Cat looked down, letting out a breath seeing no bruising or any indication of injury to that area. I hope they keep me alive just for the sake of bringing you into this world, maybe then she could come up with a plan to get out.

Looking around, arm defensive on her abdomen, she took in the metal and concrete walls, colored with a fading teal, some areas chipped. There were two metal cots on the wall to her left, one hanging above the other with chains and a single metal toilet was on the far wall in front of her with a matching sink to its side. John’s bunker.

The squeak of metal being opened behind her, Cat turned quickly making it to her feet, now noticing how they were bare. She rushed to the door looking out the single window low enough for Cat with just a little stretch. She heard the echoes of John’s shoes against the walls, his stride scaring her. 

“What is the meaning of this?” John demanded, “Where is she?”

“John,” she whispered, standing taller looking for him. “John!” She called out catching his eyes through the bars of the window. Their eyes met as he rushed to her, relief flooding his face, Good he’s not angry with me.

His hands snaked through the bars cupping her face, “Mary, oh my Mary.” He kissed her, his forehead resting against the bars, “Don’t worry I’m sure this is some misunderstanding.” He looked to people on either his eyes narrowing, “Well, what are you waiting for? Release her.” Cat saw the movement behind John taking a step back from the door. “Did you hear me? Open the door!”

“They’re under my orders, John,” Joseph said as he approached the two of them. Cat’s skin crawled at the sight of him, releasing the bars of the window. “It is time for her to go through the confession just like everyone else.”

“I thought you said she didn’t need to go through with this?” John questioned, his head bowed slightly.

“That was before,” Cat crossed her arms hunching over as Joseph told him, “she was caught with those that have not found the path and refuse to.”

John laughed, “No, that’s not possible. She- she would never do something like that,” John looked over at her, his blue eyes searching her features, “Tell him Mary, he’s wrong. I’m sure it was just some misunderstanding.” Cat looked down, if she lied it could make things worse but she didn’t, couldn’t tell John the whole truth yet either. “Mary,” John’s voice fell as she stayed quiet, “please tell me that it isn’t true.”

“You don’t understand John,” she whispered, unable to meet his gaze. She didn’t need to look up to know that his eyes would narrow, he’d puff his chest out, and his lips would turn into a snarl.

“Fine. I’ll give you time to think about your sins and hopefully we can put this behind us,” John growled through clenched teeth. She stood there listening as the two pairs of footsteps walked away from the door, unmoving until the metal fort of the bunker slammed silencing their steps. Catlina held back the tears as she sat herself on the lower cot, there was nothing she needed to think about, she knew where she went wrong it was just a matter of figuring out what she was going to tell John when the time came for her. For now she wasn’t going to let them see her cry, show that she didn’t fear what was to come, even though it was the only thing she felt. 

Having no indication of time passing made the days feel unending and while Cat had tried multiple times to lie down and sleep it was of no relief as it seemed someone was watching her. Cat would lie down, close her eyes and get a few minutes rest before John’s voice echoed in her cell, full blast and played in full. Beyond that it was played at random making it harder to tune out, a fog starting to settle on her brain as time passed. It was impossible to think of something she could say to make this all go away in a nicer manner than telling the truth. Admittedly her refusal to eat the meals brought to her, save for the occasional unaltered fruit, didn’t give much more mercy on her mind. She didn’t trust that they wouldn’t try to drug her up more and she’d be damned if she let her mind become any more susceptible to their tricks in her already fragile state. 

Days had passed before anyone opened the door entering her cell for the first time. Her tired eyes unable to focus on any features other than noting the fact that it wasn’t Lance, despite the similar build. He grabbed her upper arm harshly, yanking her up to her feet, pulling her towards the door. They walked down the hallway silently, the sound of his heavy boots filling the space between the metal scaffolding. He stopped at another door, Cat looking on as he pulled a set of keys from his pockets unlocking the door, attempting to commit it to memory in the off chance she ever needed to escape from here, or was even able too. 

The room they entered was lit with red and dim as she was shoved in, her eyes trying to take in what details she could. A tool bench off to one side and a chair with half of it’s back sawed off at the center of the room. The man that brought her tossed a shirt with an open back at her, “Put this on,” he commanded, her hands shaking as she pulled it up from the floor. He made no attempt to turn away from her allowing a small moment of privacy, Cat turning her back to him as she switched the shirts. She hadn't even fully pulled the shirt down before she was shoved into the chair, wrists bound to the arm rests. 

He left once he made sure she wasn’t going anywhere, Cat hanging her head waiting for the inevitable. This was it, this was her downfall and she only had herself to blame. There was no salvation for her left, any progress she thought had been made with John was lost now. There would be no more trust between the two of them and if she lived through this….she would be better off dead. 

The door groaned open the sound of John’s walk filling the room, shuffling footsteps behind him. He whistled, the tune just familiar enough for Cat to know she knew it but her brain unable to fully place it anywhere. She dared not look up to see who else had joined him, the turning of her stomach gave way to the observer’s identity. The small sounds of the tools being placed on the workbench thundered against her ears, she counted at least five. Screwdriver, knife, and the pieces of his tattoo gun, he never strayed from his favorites, said so himself on her first trip into this room. Cat’s opinion still never changed on the matter. 

John took a deep breath, “It’s been four days,” Cat glanced up at him through her falling hair, “plenty of time to think about what you would like to confess.”

“And just long enough without sleep to prevent hallucinations,” she mumbled, “Just enough to make me more easily talk.”

“You’ve seen what confessions can do Mary,” he walked closer to her, “It can be liberating to be unburdened by the sins you carry.”

She shook her head slowly, “Something you shouldn’t extract with torture. Not if it’s so sacred.”

“Pain is a part of the process,” she looked up with narrowed eyes meeting John’s blue eyes, “Trust me. You’ll understand soon enough.”

“Unlikely,” Cat scoffed, eyes focused on John unwilling to meet the eyes of the other man in the room. A sharp sting welled against her shoulder blades, “Ah!” Cat ground her teeth holding back the tears that had come so easily to her eyes, “You resorted to lashing?”

John looked between the guests in the room, unreadable in the shadows, “I had to, darling,” another strip of pain, her hair moved to expose more of her backside, “We can’t go with conventional means.” John walked up to her, screwdriver in hand, “Not with your,” his blue eyes casted down to her abdomen, Cat pulling on the restraints, “unique condition.” She recoiled as he placed a hand gently onto her stomach, eyes meeting hers, clouded with sadness.

“Then don’t do this at all,” she pleaded, “It's too high of a risk as is.”

“John,” Joseph’s level voice called, the two looking in his direction, Cat’s stomach lurching as she met his eyes finally. 

John inhaled through his nose pulling away from her, “Let’s start easy shall we,” he started to pace in front of her slowly, “Do you wish to be free of your sin? Do you wish to be unburdened?” Cat bit her tongue, knowing what he wanted to hear, part of her unwilling to give in that easily. She yelped feeling the sting across her lower back, “You can’t prolong this. You know exactly what you need to say.” Another slash, the sting remaining as some of her flesh broke open, “And you can either say it now, willingly,” John was inches from her in a matter of seconds gripping her chin, “or after we’ve shown you the limit of the pain that you can endure.”

“This isn’t you,” she whispered, moving her chin from his grip, “You don’t have to do this.”

His jaw hardened, “Do you wish to be free of your sins? Profess them to the world so that you may be unburdened,” he repeated through gritted teeth. 

“John,” she pleaded on her breath, “please don’t make me.”

“It’s simple, Mary,” he leaned closer, breath hot against her ear, “just say yes,” he pleaded in a whisper.

Cat shook her head, “No,” that sharp pain came across her upper right arm.

“Wrong answer,” John growled, “Sin is a funny little thing in that it festers the longer we keep it in. The best way to let yourself heal is to release it,” two more winces of pain, How many more until I don’t feel it?. “Now from what my brother has told me,” John faced her, “You’ve been keeping a lot of secrets locked up in you.” Cat stayed silent, eyes narrowing, the pain still too much, “Let’s start with your recent transgression, shall we?”

“The one where your brother found me alone in a cabin,” Cat steeled herself to look Joseph in the eyes, “He’s wrong you know. He just wants to make sure that you stay under his thumb.”

“We almost caught them,” John turned his head quickly at his brother’s voice. Cat’s heart started to race, trying to keep the worry from her face, They almost got Trey, “He managed to get away, but I expect it to be soon when he tries to come for you again.”

“You lied,” John said, eyes looking to the ground, “You lied to me.”

“John, no, stop.” Cat watched as his knuckles turned white, “It's not what you think I promise you that.”

“You just lied to me!” Cat screamed as the tip of the tool broke the skin of her arm, the metal scraping against her bone, “You lied to me! After you said that you wouldn’t ever do that to me!” He twisted the muscle moving with it, the tears falling down her face, jaw clenched to hold back the screams. “Tell me the truth! What were you doing with him in the middle of nowhere?”

“I-,” Cat’s breathing was ragged, “I-I wasn’t doing anything with him. We were just talking.”

“I’m sure that’s what you were doing,” John pulled the screwdriver out, her blood dripping before her, “Joseph said it was one of the resistance members, just never mentioned that it was male.”

“What does that have anything to do with this?” Cat asked, her leg kicking out, “I’ve always been loyal to you! I took those marriage vows seriously, which is more than I can say for you.”

She hissed feeling the blood start to run down her back as another welt burst open, “Maybe once upon a time, but not anymore.” John moved to grab the knife from the table, leaning over her once more, “Tell me Mary,” disdain dripping from her lips, “how many was it? One?” He ran the blade slowly down her shoulder, the blood welling up before cascading down her arm, “Two?” He counted along with each cut, a tally of the number of people she opened her legs for, Jokes on him, he’d need smaller lines along both arms. When he got to five he made a diagonal line, starting up the next set, deeper than the last ones. Her arm went numb as Catlina managed to keep it at bay. He pulled away, nostrils flaring, “Why can’t you just admit your disloyalty to me?” 

Cat didn’t know what propelled her to say her answer but it left her lips before she could even process them, “Because you weren’t the one I was disloyal too.” The room became still, Cat’s head hung the cold on her back both a relief and pain, “I was married,” she cried out, “I didn’t have time to mourn before I found myself in Montana.” Cat felt the tears run down her cheeks, “I was meeting with a friend, nothing more. I can promise you that.”

If the news shocked John, he didn’t let it show his expression unchanging, eyes glancing over to his older brother, “You were married. How long before you got here did you lose him?”

“Are you asking if the child’s yours?” 

The lash came quick, “Don’t mock me,” John growled, “Just answer me.” 

Catlina yelped in pain, three strikes in quick succession, her skin splitting open, the blood streaming down her back. “A month!” Cat panted, she just needed to say anything to get this to stop, “A month and I’m four months along. The child is yours John.”

He gave a small nod, “You know I keep thinking back to our wedding night,” she looked up at him confused, catching onto the fact that Joseph hadn’t moved very much the entire time, “You were so eager to consummate our marriage.”

“That’s what wives are supposed to do John.”

“I gave you a choice though,” he countered, “I gave you the option to wait….and you said no.” He smiled pacing the room, “I knew this was the last place you wanted to be at the time, that you were needing some time to adjust, but you surprised me by throwing yourself in.”

“What’s your point John?”

“Yes,” Joseph interjected, “Where are you going with this brother?”

“I’m getting to the heart of her sins,” John walked back to stand in front of her leaning over Cat, “I wasn’t the only one in that time frame was I?” 

Her throat went dry, heart pounding, “You were the only one, John. No one else.”

The tip of the knife he still held ran down her neck, her pulse increasing beneath it, “I know that can’t be true. After all you were so willing with me.” Cat’s stomach turned, head spinning, “Just tell me who it is Mary. We can move past this, be done with this whole thing if you just tell me who else may be the father.”

John’s eyes glanced to Joseph quickly, the knife point digging into the skin of her collarbone. “What do you want me to say,” she hissed, teeth gritting.

“The truth,” the knife ran down her chest, “Just tell me who else tainted you.” His tone changed ever so slightly, Cat picking up on the hidden meaning despite the slow blooming pain clouding her mind. One name, that’s all she had to give and there was a possibility of this nightmare ending. One name….the name she couldn’t give no matter how much it would have been easy to let it out such a lie. John wanted the truth, she’d promised that she would be, despite the million other lies she’d told him since then.

“Jacob,” Catlina admitted, head hanging low with her hands balled into fists. 

His movements stopped, “Jacob?” She nodded, biting her tongue, “So there really is-.”

“No!” Cat shook her head, “Never. He- I- We weren’t stupid. Protection was used. I just. He gave a proposal of what life would look like with him,” John reached for her throat, air cut off for a second as he got a good grip. “I don’t know what I was thinking,” Cat pleaded, tears streaming down her face, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It didn’t seem relevant.”

His nails dug into her skin a moment more before he released her, “I appreciate your honesty.” John stood back taking a deep breath, smoothing his hair back, “Time for the final step.” 

“I don’t want it,” she whispered, a welt opening on her arm quickly as the words left her tongue. 

“You don’t have a choice,” John made his way back to the workbench assembling the tattoo gun, “You’ve confessed and now it's time to bare your sin so that you may atone.”

Cat shook her head, legs kicking out as he came near her, “I said no!” His tattooed hands moved to hold her still, Cat attempting to bite him. She’d never wanted to be marked. The minute she was, was the moment she’d never have herself again. She’d be theirs for the rest of her life. All agencies lost. It was one thing to be held hostage and play to survive, it was another thing to be forced to bear the symbols of their faith, no one would take her in if she left. Cat thrashed against him, doing anything she could to get him away from her. 

“Hold her down will you,” John spoke to the person that had been behind her, his weapon of torture tossed to the ground. She felt something rough and flat held against her back, rough hands holding her left shoulder down against it. She turned to sink her teeth into his flesh, her hair gathered and yanked downward. Stuck in place, John managing to find a place between her legs to make them ineffective against him. John tore open the shirt giving him enough skin to work with, his fingers tracing just below her right collarbone. John smiled making the instrument buzz a few times, before he held down her right side. 

“No!” Catlina screamed out once more, tears streaming down her face. The needle hit her skin, the pain shooting through her body as she tried to move against the two men feebly. “Stop! Please stop!” Cat cried until her voice was hoarse, John taking his time in his handwriting. Catlina’s eyes caught Joseph’s face, the pain spreading to anger in her chest, his face shadowed in the low lighting, but the emotions clear. Disappointment, not directed at her though, his blue eyes were focused on John, as if he was expecting more….

Finally John finished, stepping back to admire his work, “You can release her,” the board left her back, hair released, and pushed back into an upright position. “Let her get some rest and then I’ll come back for her.” John walked over to Joseph, head ducking as his older brother placed an arm around him, the two talking in hushed tones. Cat’s eyelids felt heavy, the rest of her body following as she watched, letting the men untie her from the chair and drag her out of the room, her legs shaky trying to keep up. She lost.

The journey was short, as her knees hit the concrete floor of her cell. Her shoulder hurt along with her back, as she crawled to the silver sink, an old rag tossed along its edge. The water never warmed as she gripped the edges of it, letting the rag dampen before bringing it to her clavicle. She shut her eyes, wincing as the cold made contact with the fresh wound, dabbing along the edges as the grey stained to red. John knew how deep to go to prevent any serious injury as she saw some of the edges already working to close on her chest. 

Branded. 

John branded her and in a place that could never be hidden with the clothing she was given here. Four letters, ten lines and there went her hope. He knew what he was doing and did it anyway, there was no excuse for his actions. She wasn’t going to listen to anything he had to say, if anything it was his turn to listen to her. If John had any doubts as to who his brother was then he was going to find out exactly who Joseph was through her eyes. Maybe then, maybe then John could help put a stop to this before it got any worse. 

Cat sighed, shaking her head, she couldn’t let herself believe any of it. Too many times she’d think one way about him and each time he’d do some form of the opposite. Too naive, too trusting….the two traits everyone told her were going to get her killed. She looked down to the blurred reflection of the sink, she wasn’t naive though. She knew exactly who John was underneath his bravado and yet she chose to trust John. She chose who to trust and how much to trust them, proof enough was that she never let much guard down around the Father. They were wrong, her naivety and trusting nature is what helped her survive, the way in which she was going to find the best way out of this situation with the least amount of people hurt. 

She finished cleaning off the blood, wiping away at the tears still falling silently, hearing the door groan open. Catlina shut her eyes, shoulders tensing, “I thought I was to get some rest before going back with you?”

John took a few more steps into the cell, the door closing behind him, “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Mary please,” his hands reached out gently to him, “I know we can work this out.”

Cat spun facing him, “No we can’t! Because what am I going to say that will make this better to you? I know how you think, how you see the world as black and white, with you or against you.”

“To be quite honest you were the one that started this,” he crossed his arms glaring down at her, “You used me first.”

“I-. I used you?” She laughed, “You have to be kidding me. You and your brother used me first!”

“Not in the same ways that you used me for information,” Cat rolled her eyes crossing her arms, “I never would have done that to you.”

“Bullshit you wouldn’t have!” John’s blue eyes narrowed, Cat pressing forward, “That’s your whole fucking job! Manipulation, persuasion, anything to get what you want.”

“Not with you!” He let out a slow breath shutting his eyes briefly, “Not with you, not anymore.”

“Then why go through with it?”

“Because you lied!” He ran a hand down his face, pinching the bridge of his nose, “You lied and kept things from me and I can’t think of a good reason why.”

“So you just want to know why I’ve done the things that I’ve done?” He nodded as she turned away from him, giving a slow nod, “Still won’t make a bit of difference to you, so why bother.”

“Have you been lying to me this whole time?” Not one hundred percent, the truthful answer, one that Cat didn’t believe he’d take so easily. There shouldn’t have been much of a reason for him to really care about an answer, he knew most of this relationship was built on lies. Lies that soon opened up to truths….more on John’s end than hers. She trusted him but that trust could only go so far and some things were better left on a need to know basis. “Mary,” he repeated, “have you been lying to me this whole time?”

“Is your love a lie?”, “About as much as you have,” she glanced over her shoulder, So take that as you will.

John was always the one better at hiding everything making it impossible to tell if her answer was enough of one for him. It most likely wasn’t and she wasn’t ready to tell the whole truth. “Then I find it best you stay here a little longer like Joseph wants,” his voice even, the heel of his shoe turning, “Long enough for a repeat of the events that brought you here to never occur again.”

“Might as well leave me here then.”

He stopped, briefly looking over his shoulder, “Why would I do that?”

“You’re not going to let me out of your sight, this is the easiest option for you. A cage is still a cage.”

John looked to the ground, jaw tightening, “You have to know I didn’t want this for you.”

“You still did it though,” she grumbled, “You could have said no.”

“You’ll have one more session possibly, Mary, so I suggest you find it in your heart to tell the truth. Other than that you will be confined to your cell.” John saw himself out, Cat keeping her back to him, shoulders sagging once the echo of his footsteps stopped. She brought herself over to the sink once more, cleaning what she could reach, nothing from what she could tell was needing to be bandaged. They’d all heal eventually, not that it mattered. 

Marked. I’ve been marked, she thought, I’ve lost….I’m theirs, now and forever. 

In the days since John left Cat’s sense of time blurred as she was never allowed more than an hour of sleep. Her wounds opened up again and again as she was brought in, what had to be daily, to that same room with someone different each time to get her to confess to some sin. There was no need, simply a front created to mask that this whole thing was to break her down once more. 

Obey, only follow the will of the Father. She was granted the sin of pride, etched at the bottom of her ribs.

Pray, there will be forgiveness for your transgressions. 

Trust, the path will lead you to where you need to be. The wrath formed at the back of her heart, just between the shoulder blades. 

A final word, one that she could not identify, the sweat and tears covering her blurred vision, the pain almost familiar as they held her arm in place. She no longer protested against these markings. John lied, he always did. She couldn’t remember the last time he came by….if he ever did come by again. The buzzing stopped, arm left cold as blood was wiped away. Someone pulled her face down, forcing her to contend with the letters etched into her arm.

“Special one,” one the men, or so she assumed, their voice was deep, “just for you. By request of the Father.”

“Forgive me so I may be allowed into Eden.” Instinct, all she could run on, function on. When did she even start saying it?

“Understand what it says don’t you?” She focused her eyes, letters but not a word that she could make out, “Acedia. On your arm as a reminder of who you are. Says he doesn’t want you to forget it.” She gave a nod, face released, lifted by her arms, their grip reopening some of the cuts along them. She followed dutifully numb to the aches and pains that screamed each time she moved. They pushed her back in the cell, knees hitting the concrete, her hair falling forward. 

She used to cry after they were done, she remembers that much, there hasn’t been any since….the first one maybe. Had to be more than three days ago, not every “confession” ended in another sin placed upon her body. How much longer? Would it be all seven? The voice reverberated through her bones, a small whine from her as she covered her ears. That voice, the one that kept her up, the one that refused to let her sleep. Block it out. Block it out. Block it out. Block. It. Out.

Retreat, leave this place, What else was there for her to do? Just forget, forget the world around you. She is whoever they want to be, and right now they want her to be awake, praying, and hoping to be given salvation. How many times was she told it would be granted if she just prayed, thousands, since her mind started with the dark thoughts. “Just pray and it’ll go away. You’re just not trying hard enough, honey.”, She tried again and again, but what can you pray to when you don’t believe the god you were born with has all the answers. Retreat. Tune it out. Stay awake but tune it out.

It was a slow crawl for her to make it to the bed, sheets stiff, fine with her as the cold was a better comfort. That voice stops and the quiet comes….and it comes….and it comes, until it stays. She’s done for the day. There will be no more praying, no more confessions, no more pain, no more blood, no more existing….only peace. Just enough to close her eyes too. She used to dream about sunny days and picking wildflowers for him, there are no more dreams now. If his face comes to her it's only a feeling of comfort, nothing that she can make out or identify. For now its darkness and that’s fine with her.

It's a door creak that wakes her, not the voice, maybe she slept through it. That couldn’t be good. The whispered prayers started up, funny now how she now relied on the religion she fought so hard against growing up, some words were changed but the intentions were still the same. Her eyes open slowly, blue eyes, dark hair pieces falling out of place yet the beard still looks well kept. He made no movement to grab her, just assessed her eyes growing wide with each inch he took in. 

Streaked red, that's how her arms and legs always looked to her now, no matter how hard she scrubbed in the beginning. Her eyes land on the hand moving towards her now, something forcing a recoil, the markings, she should fear them, “No!” He tries again, his voice soft trying to soothe her. Farther back, against the wall, “No. No more,” soft, mumbled.

He softens his face, “No more,” The voice….but it's never sounded this soft, “I promise you no more.” He shakes his head, hand covering his mouth, “This should have never happened,” it's more to himself, he reaches out again, she shuts her eyes shaking her head. He nods and lets out a breath standing up, “I’ll be back.”

The door remains open as he walks away, Run, her mind speaks, body unresponsive to the command. Run, before he comes back. Footsteps, two sets one heavier than the other, come back to the bed. “John,” this voice is deeper, eyes kinder and hazel, he sounds concerned and angry.

“I know,” John kneels down, That’s his name, “I-I didn’t think-.”

“Save it,” the kinder man, Lance I think that’s it, slowly raises his hand out to her. She winces but he’s able to place it upon her shoulder, thumb sticking slightly as he rubs it. “Bring the blanket over,” he commands looking over his shoulder, a smile on his face when he faces her once more, “Don’t worry, me and John are gonna take you back home.”

“Home.”

Lance nods, taking the blanket from John putting it around her shoulders, “This might hurt. I’m gonna try and be as gentle as possible.”

“Should I get a stretcher,” John asks, “Make it a bit easier to get her up the stairs.”

He shakes his head, “No, faster if I just carry her,” the blanket tightens as it encases her, “Besides I’d still be doing most of the work. You help with the clean up.” Her back stings as she feels the fibers stick to the wounds opening up again or never started to heal in the first place. “I’m sorry. Just hang tight,” Lance feels warm and she can’t help but bury her face into his chest as he checks his grip on her, “Her back might be the worst part of her.”

“None of this should have happened.”

“What did you tell them anyway?”

“Just to keep her in the cell, she was to go for one more confession,” John walked in front of them shielding her eyes as they came into contact with the setting sun, “Someone else gave them orders after that.”

She flinches at the growl in John’s tone, “Well you can figure that out later,” Lance says, setting her gently down in the back seat, “For now let’s just get her home. Some of the wounds look fresher than the others.” 

John takes a seat in the back, resting her head in his lap, she’s too tired to fight and the fingers running through her hair feels nice. The car starts and makes its descent down the mountain, her eyes closing, “I’ll fix this, love, I can promise you that. There’s no need to worry, I’ll take care of you, Catlina.”

[missingartist]

The Witcher’s Mate Chapter 11

Triss Merigold stared as Geralt laid the sleeping woman onto the four-poster bed, in the rooms that Triss had sought sanctuary for the past couple of months. The Marquis of Smegwag had been in urgent demand of a Mage, and his hospitality had been exquisite. The Marquis had given her own private house with workshop attached, stocked with every ingredient she could ever want to help the Marquis expand his power reach. It had not been since being Forrester's Mage that she had been surrounded in such luxury. The mansion itself was situated in an affluent town, no filthy streets or gruff-looking whoreson out to gut you for whatever was in your pockets. It was pleasant and peaceful after all the years being frames for killing her former king. The last person she has thought to see was Geralt of Rivia, especially cradling her like such a glass doll.

‘I almost feel like you are stalking me; you almost seem to know where I am.’ Triss teased as Geralt pulled a blanket over the figure. Triss watched as the brunette with the plush lips stirred slightly as they watched as the giant worry tucked her in with such delicacy you would think she would shatter into a million pieces.

‘Hmmm’ Geralt hummed as tenderly he plumped Adva pillows before turning and leaving, but not before cast one last look as he closed the door.

The mage busied herself by making tea, and with a snap of her fingers, a broad spread of food appeared on the table, along with a serving woman who appeared with a jug of spiced wine which she offered to Jaskier with a smile. The bard's eyes widened as she leaned over a thrust her over ample bosom into his face. Triss rolled her eyes as Jaskier giggled flirtatiously at the serving girl who rolled her eyes at his awkward pass, how a talented bard though comparing her chest to juicy melons was a good idea was beyond Triss. Before she passed the Witcher the tea which he instantly discarded. Taking the hint, Triss gestured to the small workroom off the main chambers.

The room was a working laboratory; cauldrons bubbled, herb and flower were being dried and turned into a powder. Neon liquids sat glowing decorative bottles against the wall, next to it a row of antique books filled the next two walls, books in languages he had never seen; it was an extensive collection, second only to Aretuza, Triss did like to be well equipped. It had felt like a long time since he had seen Triss, around the last time he was a proper item with Yennefer. The moment Yennefer came into his mind, he felt sour, he had last seen her a month before he stumbled upon Adva. As always, the demanding raven-haired mage had manipulated and strung him along and disappeared, taking Ciri with her. A sense of bitterness washed over him for the first time in weeks; he had almost forgotten about their argument, and he had just walked in Yennefer’s best friend’s home, carry a woman who could be his mate.

‘I would seem you have landed on your feet.’ Geralt grunted as he rested against a cabinet.

The curly-haired woman sat at the workbench and sipped her tea as she watched him, he seemed different, his eyes were concerned, but his face seemed less severe. His body was unmoving and still but a nervous energy vibrant in the room, it was unsettling to see the cold Witcher so unsettled. With another small sip of tea, she replied ‘I have. The Marquis is very kind. But enough of this small talk, it never suited you. So, are going to have to tell me why you are here? And who she is?’

Geralt tossed the book toward the caramel skin mage. Triss quickly caught the book despite its heaviness. It was old and in near mint condition, but just from looking at the spine, there had been extensive stress over the last couple of weeks. In one section particularly, read over and over again to the point the book flopped open at the start of a chapter written in the old language; the stunning calligraphy read – THE WITCHER’S MATE. Creasing her brow slightly, she read the first page with profound confusion.

‘Witcher’s have mates? I have never heard of anything like this. I have heard of soul bonds between humans and mages sometimes even elves but this…never.’

‘When I was in training there was a story that Alzur, the mage who created the School of Witcher’s, he designed the Witcher’s with the ability to have a soulmate, to be something other than a Witcher. For all eternity to be loved and adored by one person, a love that would never wavier. But it’s a myth, a fairy-tale. I have never heard of it happen, or Vesemir or his mentor or the mentor before him. ‘Geralt spoke softly with hard eyes.

‘Yet it is written about in a book.’ Triss gently pointed out. ‘A guide to Witcher’s no less. And from the detail here I would say it more than a myth, you have information about the symptoms, effects, the ritual of the soulbond and a lot of detail about the sex, in a lot a detail. I do not even think I have heard of most of these positions and I have been around the block more than a few time Geralt. Seem like you cannot deny it provenance. But then again Great Geralt of Rivia would not have come to see little old me unless something was going on. Tell me Geralt we are friends, after all.’

The white-haired Witcher growled, rubbing his hands over his face, he did this for a few minutes before straightening himself and pacing the small length of the room in two strides.

‘I felt it before I had even seen her; the smell was incredible, and since then, it has only been getting stronger and stronger. It’s a symptom, along with the constant need to be near her. I even fucking brought her from the tavern she worked it, I should have just left her there but I couldn’t, the thought they would pressure her into being a whore or worse sold off to another sadist like Tradi was too much. I thought it was just some rebound from Yen but, yesterday I felt her inside my head after she conjured a lightning bolt out of nowhere. She was in my head, reading my thought. I felt it. Its unbearable… I can’t… ’ Geralt growled, shoving a cash of glass bottles off the bench, sending shards across the polished floor.

‘Well…skipping over the fact you brought someone Geralt. It seems like there is no denying the fact she is your soul mate. So, what the problem, you got the manual on how to go so claim her? What the problem?’  

‘There’s this... Tradi of Brownstone tried to murder her for this in Brightwater, told me it was a family book that she had been left with when she was abandoned at Brightwaters dock. In all the confusion I picked it up, is it worth setting a Griffin on the town for.’ Geralt sighed and handed the Burgundy journal.

Triss starred at him in disbelief ‘Does she knows you have this?’ Flipping the book in her hands in belief.

‘No, and it would be good if it stayed that way till we know what we are dealing with.’ Geralt once again crossed his arms and hunched over the workbench.

Triss gave him an unconvinced look before running a hard hand over the book. It was old but sturdy. Thick deep red leather, with an engraved design, etched across its surface. There seemed to be some kind of dialect around the sides; the rest was an ornate pattern of the cycle of the moon and some soft-shell design. The power vibrated of the book was potent and shrouded in an ancient protection spell.

‘This is a powerful book.’ Triss marvelled as she opened the book and scanned the unreadable script.

‘Black magic?’

‘No… no. It an Arcana.’ The curly-haired mage gushed as she turned page after page.

‘Isn’t that for tarot cards?’ Geralt questioned.

Triss stood and pulled a book from the shelf and past it to Geralt, The Secrets of the Arcana. Before speaking again, ‘Arcana means secrets of nature. For centuries Alchemists sought to discover secrets and powerful remedies. It legend that at the start of the time when magic was first explored, the elder races documented everything in family journals. To my knowledge, only one other survived… and that is locked in the vaults at Aretuza. As High Mages, we have only ever glimpsed it…this, however, is nothing like the one I've seen. I have never seen any language like this. Ever.’

‘Can you decode it?’ Geralt demanded.

‘Decode it? Maybe with time…why, though?’

‘If we can work out what it is, it can tell us something about her. About this connection, it has to have something to do with the book.’ Geralt straightened, his leather armour creaked as he did.

‘Hmmm. I can try... But Geralt have you ever considered that she is your mate?’ Triss placed the book down and picked up her spiced tea, a mix of cinnamon and nutmeg mixed with the vanilla of the tea.

‘Hmmmmm.’ Geralt growled.

Despite the growling ferocity of his voice, there was, in his eyes, hope. Triss had to know Geralt years and deep down, there was echoing loneliness that seeped through his ones and to the core of his soul. A yearning to connect with someone. The Witcher had tried hard with Yennefer, but the two were just too volatile, like chalk and cheese. There was an intense attraction between them, intensified by the Jinn spell. Geralt at heart was a lovesick puppy following Yennefer around. In spite of their friendship, Yennefer’s treatment of Geralt was a sore point for Triss. They had had something long ago, but now it was a deep love like brother and sister. Protective and warm. And if it were true, Triss would support this bond with everything she had.

‘Because there is a way to check if you are soulmates.’

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Geralt took little convincing and watched Triss prepare the solution in a wooden bowl. Ahwinder eggs, rose thorns, peppermint, powdered moonstones, pearl dush and rose petals. The smell was surgery and warm as they carried it through the house to the room the Adva slept sweetly. Triss could not help but admire the women. Her body was unlike Yennefer’s, it was thick and curvy, more suitable for a Witcher’s mate Triss thought as she tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear. Thick, long eyelashes fanned out across her cheeks, paired with soft cheekbones and plump pink lips. Resting the bowl on the side, she removed the girl’s hand from underneath the blankets and revealed a knife, glinting menacingly in the sunlight.

‘What are you doing to her?’ Geralt growled, gripping Triss’s wrist tightly.

‘It a small cut Geralt, protective much? Are you sure you just don’t want to accept she is your mate?’ Triss snapped, pulling her hand back.

Geralt released her hands and took a step back to watch the mage drag the knife across her palm. Deep red droplet fell into the bowl and hung motionless in the water. Triss did the same with Geralt bronzed hand and watched as the blood did the same. Geralt watched as the blood mingled into the water, the water was a sea of blues and pinks, the vibrant red vivid against the water. Geralt felt a sense of relief when the water did not react but also a sense of regret. The cat-like orbs looked downcast and heaved himself from the bedpost and of out the room when a faint glow emanated throughout the room. The glow grew and grew till the pair had to turn their eyes away from the burning light. The bowl rattled and pulsated on the table till the light burnt out and an overpowering sweet smell.

‘Does that answer your question….Geralt this is a powerful bond…if you don’t complete the link…I don’t know what is going to happen.’ Triss coughed picking up the bowl, now empty and thrusting it under his nose.

‘Fuck’

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The room span as Adva’s eyes blinked open. The room was lavish and extravagant, richly decorated in filigree paper and a deep mahogany bed with silk sheets. They were soft against her skin, and the bed, the bed was a cushion of air that held her tenderly. Adva’s body ached, it felt like she had slept for a century, but still, her body yearned for more sleep. Pushing herself up a stinging sensation bite through her hand. Flinching away, Adva brought her hand, find her hand carefully wrapped in a white linen bandage. With every flex, she could feel the flesh of a hand separated cause her to recoil in pain.

‘What happened to my hand?’ Adva groaned. ‘Oh, dear lord! Are they okay?’ Sitting bolt upright in the bed and on weak legs attempted to stand, only to be pushed back into the bed by small hands.

‘They are downstairs, perfectly fine.’ A beautiful woman smiled down at her with perfect white teeth and warm chocolate brown eyes.  ‘I am Triss Merigold, a mage, Geralt’s friend. Your safe.’

‘Oh…hello.’ Adva smiled weakly resting herself against the pillows, almost sighing in ecstasy as she rested into cloud-soft pillows.

‘I know you have a lot of question, but you need to rest for now. You were suffering from magical build-up; Its when magical creativity does not have an outlet. You have probably been suffering from a long time but your…powers kept you from exploded, so when Geralt was teaching you his little party trick all that pent up magic that was within saw an opportunity it went for it. None of that was your fault; I am surprised that Cersi didn’t want to train you. But her lose it my gain; I could teach you, properly. But only if you want me to…what do you say?’

‘Yes’

Woooooooo I’m back baby! Sorry my tumblr account locked me out and work is roaring back to life! 

Please let me know what you think!

@broco8​ @introvertedmouse​ @luxyash​ @threepupsinapuddle​

[bird--egg]

LOOMING SUNLIGHT Chapter Two

Link to the AO3 version of this chapter: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30351717/chapters/75510908#workskin

 Cedar crouched low in the long dry grass, pelt prickling with heat. In the three days following her ‘ceremony’ the weather had not improved, and the sky was completely empty of clouds. The long expanse blue expanse above her seemed to mock her efforts as futile, but Cedar ignored the heat in favor of crawling through the Windclan moors. She had been searching for moss or any sort of absorbent plant to soak and bring water back to Sunflowerclaw, but Windclan had little shade or moisture, so she seemed to be perpetually out of luck. Her next hope was to find some type of shrub that would do the job, and she figured her best bet was near the roots of the long grass.

Pausing her search for a moment, Cedar remained crouched in the grass but unmoving. She felt hidden and safe here, even under the uncomfortable weather, away from her clanmates. Cedar sighed, and then paused when she scented something through her open mouth. The young grey pelted apprentice concentrated desperately, trying to figure out the scent of the creature.

She felt it smelled the same way bird carcasses at camp did, so she stepped lightly through the grass, ears pricked. She spotted a dark brown bird with a distinct red chest a tail-length away from her, pecking at seeds in the dirt. Her mouth collected saliva unconsciously, and she determinedly kept her tail off the ground to avoid making noise. Bunching her muscles, Cedar pounced and felt her paws hit the bird for a brief moment. However, she failed to grab the bird quick enough, and it shot from her paws with a shriek of alarm, fluttering into the sky without hesitation.

“Cedarpaw?” a concerned voice rang out, and Cedar stood up above the grass and turned to her mentor. Mothscar had been searching for nesting material a bit away from her and was watching her with concern. Cedar looked down at her paws were a single feather lay, expression neutral. Mothscar tried to hide it, but he always seemed vaguely concerned for her, even when she was fine.

“I was just trying to catch a brown bird.” She explained. Mothscars torn ears twitched in confusion.

“A brown bird?”

“Yes, with a red chest.” Cedar didn’t see what was so important about the bird other than the fact she didn’t catch it, but humored her mentor. Mothscar looked at Cedar with dawning understanding.

“Oh! That’s a robin, they disappear when winter comes.”  Cedar’s tail twitched. She wondered if most apprentices would have already known what a robin was. Not that she was an apprentice…

“Why don’t we practice your hunting crouch? I’m sure you almost caught it, but a little practice will help seal the deal.” Cedar fell into step with Mothscar, following the older tom through the moors with her tail dragging against the ground. While she was technically allowed to assist in hunts, she couldn’t help feel cautious whenever she trained in more typically ‘warrior’ activities. Mothscar seemed content to pretend she was a normal apprentice, even calling her Cedarpaw, but Cedar was entirely aware how strange and precarious her position was.

Mothscar lead her further into the territory, stopping at a flat stretch of moor with a strange lack of grass. Cedar sniffed the paw prints that had been struck against the dry pebbled group, nose twitching as Cloverpaw and Willowpaw’s scent stood out strongly.

“This is the practice ridge, isn’t it?” Cedar asked, eyeing the other side of the flattened land, which cut off abruptly in a small ridge. Mothscar smiled cheerily, stepping into the practice ridge.

“Yep! Thought you might have an easier time learning the hunters crouch if you could actually see me. Your so short the high grass sweeps over your ears.” He purred, whiskers twitching with amusement. Cedar snorted and reluctantly smiled, hesitantly stepping out from the grass and onto the hard packed dirt.

“Last I checked, only apprentice’s train here.” A low voice grumbled lowly, and Cedar immediately withdrew her paw, ears flattened against her head. Stormfang was a fierce warrior, one Cedar had been told stories about when she lived in Shadowclan. As her eyes drifted behind the pale grey she cat, she noticed Willowpaw leaning from behind her and wiggling his ears at her. She supposed that solved the mystery of who Willowpaw’s mentor was.

“Well that’s not true at all.” Mothscar meowed neutrally, eyes friendly but tail unmoving. “I know warriors train here all the time.”

“Well Cedar is neither a warrior nor an apprentice.” Stormfang shot back, sunset-coloured eyes narrowing slightly at the elder. Mothscar didn’t respond, simply flicking his ear once in a way that didn’t seem to confirm anything. Stormfang stared at the older cat before letting out a sharp puff of air and moving further into the training ground. Willowpaw bounded up towards Cedar, seemingly completely unaware of the tension.

“Hi Cedarki-Cedar…paw?” He started awkwardly, glancing at his mentor somewhat warily. When Stormfang made no show of even hearing her apprentice he faced Cedar again, tail twitching with excitement.

“It’s nice to see you! We’re all so busy now that it seems like we never see each other!”

Cedar shrugged. Willowpaw ignored the lack of any engagement.

“It’ll be great to train with someone other than Cloverpaw! All she does is kick my tail around all day.” Pausing, Willowpaw turned to Stormfang again. “Hey stormfang! Can we practice hunting moves with Cedarpaw?”

Stormfang let out a barely audible sigh. “That’s fine, we will train with Cedar, since Cloverpaw is busy on a border patrol.” Willowpaw chirped happily and raced into the training ground, striped tail sticking straight up like a tree branch. Cedar reluctantly followed him over, sitting beside Mothscar who seemed to have been quietly conversing with Stormfang before the apprentices interrupt them. He smiled down at her.

“Alright, stand up straight and listen up.” Stormfang intoned, casting her eyes mostly on Willowpaw as she said this.

“Since rabbits are doing scarcely this Greenleaf, we’ll be practicing bird hunting. Birds are always more common than rabbits in times of strife because they have a wider range of land they can look for food.” Cedar nodded, figuring this made sense. Personally, she thought Riverclan and Shadowclan had the right idea about hunting fish, as fish very rarely seemed to suffer from things that made it hard from other prey to live.

Mothscar stood and stretched before lowering himself down into a crouch.

“The first step to hunting most prey is crouching.” He continued Stormfang’s lesson naturally, demonstrating the technique for the two young cats. Willowpaw and Cedar copied his position listening to his instructions as Stormfang tapped her tail against parts of their form that were incorrect.

“For a rabbit it’s common to have one cat block their burrows and wait at the entrance while another chases them into that cat’s claws. Can either of you tell me what the problem is for birds?”

“We can’t grow wings and fly after them?” asked Willowpaw, loosening his stance as he spoke before Stormfang swatted him lightly and he returned to his crouch. Cedar huffed quietly.

“We can’t race them.” She started, then stopped nervously as the two mentors put their attention on her. Swallowing, she continued softy. “Windclan cats are really good at outrunning prey or chasing them to places. With a bird you have to…surprise them.” She trailed off, shoulders hunching awkwardly. Mothscar nodded happily from his crouch and Stormfang stayed silent, watching with her unknowable golden eyes.

“Exactly!” Mothscar meowed “And because of this it means we have to hunt differently than we normally would. The moors have enough areas with long grass that we can learn to stalk prey and pounce suddenly, like a Thunderclan cat would do.” Or a Shadowclan cat thought Cedar moodily, though she supposed that was a sensitive topic.

Willowpaw couldn’t seem to stand staying in the same position for so long and finally leapt up despite the glare from his mentor.

“Sounds fun! Let’s go test it out on some crows or something!” he batted at some invisible birds before looking expectantly at Stormfang. Stormfang cast her eyes to Mothscar questioningly before snapping them back to her apprentice.

“Of course. Willowpaw, with me. Mothscar, you can take Cedar and cover more ground.” With that short declaration she stomped out of the training ridge, Willowpaw trailing after her like a leaf caught up in the river. Mothscar let out a loud sigh that Stormfang cold likely still hear.

“Alright then, Cedarpaw. Let’s get revenge on some robins.”

--

 Cedar puffed a grey feather from her face, wrinkling her nose. Mothscar chuckled idly beside her, picking up his own bird in his mouth as he started to walk back to camp. Cedar grabbed her prey, moving behind her mentor with tired paws. She’d spent the rest of the day hunting with Mothscar, and the sun was low now. She’d barely managed to finally snag some weird grey bird after multiple failed attempts. Mothscar hadn’t been more successful, and Cedar suspected his old injuries made it hard for him to pounce without pain. By the time the two arrived in camp dusk was setting in, and most cats were milling around and sharing tongues. Cedar ignored the eyes on her as she and her mentor dropped their prey in the prey pile, pelt prickling. Mothscar picked up a shrew and nudged her along until they sat beside the elders den. Dropping the prey, he motioned at her to eat. Cedar was too hungry to protest and began tearing at the shrew.

“Do you know what the bird we caught is called?” Mothscar asked. Cedar shook her head no without pausing her bite. Mothscar’s eyes glimmered mischievously.

“Pigeons.” Cedar choked mid bite, raising her head up to look at the elder before briefly glancing at Pigeonflight, who was ranting to Cloverpaw about something. Cloverpaw looked vaguely frustrated.

“They’re not…quite as ugly as the actual bird.” She muttered, pelt fluffing in surprise when Mothscar immediately burst out in laughter. Cedar huffed and pushed the rest of the shrew to scarred cat, who finished it quickly. She felt bad that she couldn’t retrieve another piece of prey for Mothscar, but Rootstar had made it clear that prey was to be rationed as much as possible. Cedar looked to the side as she heard Willowpaw approach, looking no less energized after such a long day.

“Wow Cedarp-Cedar, did you really hunt that pigeon?” he asked happily, sitting beside her without comment. Cedar eyed the space between them for a moment of silence before responding.

“Yeah.” She watched the apprentice, making sure he hadn’t asked her that to make fun of her. His expression seemed completely sincere.

“That’s great! I didn’t manage to catch anything, even though Stormfang caught a blackbird.” He sighed morosely, slumping his head against the ground. Mothscar chuckled.

“Don’t worry Willowpaw, it takes most apprentice’s a couple hunting sessions to catch their first prey.” He laid his tail across Willowpaw’s paw reassuringly, but Cedar couldn’t help but feel he was boasting about her. She felt like it was rude to be so obvious about celebrating her achievement in front of Willowpaw, but a part of her was pleased. Willowpaw nodded agreeably before breaking out into a yawn.

“Well, I’m gonna head of to sleep before Cloverpaw gets in the apprentice den and hogs all the nests. See you two tomorrow!” and with that, the tabby rose from his spot and bounded to the apprentice den. Cedar wasn’t explicitly banned from sleeping there with him and Cloverpaw, but she worried that if she did it would suggest she was ignoring Rootstars orders. If she wasn’t an apprentice she couldn’t very well sleep in the apprentice den…so far she’d just been sleeping in the Elder den with Mothscar.

Mothscar licked her lightly on the head and turned towards the elder’s den, disappearing in it. Cedar looked longingly at the apprentice den for a moment, before following her mentor.

[ethospathoslogan]

there will come a poet: chapter two (a vampire sanders sides fanfiction)

A/N: feedback is greatly appreciated!! :)

summary: “A prince makes his way into the realm of the monsters,” Janus mused, never breaking his line of sight, “And thinks he’ll find good.” He raised an eyebrow. “Really makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

ships: eventual moxiety and logince

WC: 3,902

content: it’s ur boy remus but also is now a good time to say that i don’t subscribe to the idea of “sympathetic” or “unsympathetic” sides

read on ao3 

previous chapter / start from the beginning / next chapter

taglist: @iwillsithereandtrytocontribute , @glitchybina , @ab-artist

-----------------------------------------------------

Patton was in the middle of deciding whether or not he should be terrified when Janus, looking over his shoulder down the hall, said, “Remus, you know you shouldn’t be out after the sun rises.”

“Oh, of course, your majesty!” 

Janus bristled. “Try to be polite.” He then turned his chilled look to Patton. “After all, we have a guest.”

“Janus!” Roman and Virgil hissed.

“What?” Janus asked, quirking an eyebrow. “You think we can hide him?”

Out of the corner of his eye, just barely, Patton watched Roman’s grip tighten around the arms of his chair. “Might be smarter than leading him straight to-”

“A guest?” Remus asked and, from the corridor, the third brother entered the dining hall.

The portrait did not prepare Patton.

The first thing he saw staring down at him from the doorway were two eyes that, at one point, as the portrait once proved, were the same honey brown as his brothers’,  but have now been overcome with a sickly, twisting green. When red hair fell into his eyes, granting Patton just a moment’s reprieve from being surveyed, the waves were brushed away with a clawed hand.

And when Remus’s look of confusion, of curiosity, faded, it was replaced with a wide grin.

It would’ve been picture perfect if not for the two rows of jagged, sharp fangs.

“A guest?” Remus repeated, tilting his head. “Or breakfast?”

Patton decided that he was terrified.

“Don’t you fucking-” Roman growled and, beginning to move, was only stilled by Janus putting a hand out.

“Neither of you,” he said, his voice overcome with a calmness that barely masked the threat underneath it, “Will move another inch.”

Roman, unmoving, glowered. Remus, his grin falling into a smirk, shifted.

Janus swung a hang out as if ready to shove Remus back.

Remus, instead, stayed still. “It’s charming, really,” he laughed. “The lack of control you think I have!”

“Well it wouldn’t be the first-!” Roman began again.

“Roman! Enough!” Janus snapped before whipping his head back to Remus. “Remus-”

“Janus?”

Janus huffed and, after a quick glare, repeated, “Remus, this is-”

“Oh, I’d rather hear it from him.” Remus, baring his teeth down at Patton (or maybe he was grinning and Patton was just too distracted by the heartbeat in his ears and holy-), flourished a clawed hand in his direction. “If one of you brought a… guest here, then-”

“None of us brought him here,” Virgil cut in.

The grin slipped off Remus’s face as he slowly turned to Virgil. “Come again?”

Virgil shifted under his gaze and, instead, flicked his eyes to Janus. “I mean, Janus brought him here but-”

“This is getting nowhere,” Janus interrupted, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Patton!” Patton finally piped up, his voice a bit too shaky and a bit too loud.

He blushed as all heads turned to him but, forcing his eyes to remain on Remus, he repeated, doing his best to compose himself, “My name is Patton. Patton Hartt.”

Remus’s eyebrows shot to his hairline. “Hartt?” he repeated, laughter bubbling in his chest. “As in- as in the people who came in and killed dear old Livius Anguine?”

“I- I-” Patton stammered.

Remus took a step closer, and Janus’s hand shot out to grab his wrist. Still, Patton couldn’t recede any further into his chair. “So, does that make you… a prince?”

Patton, having momentarily forgotten how to speak, swallowed thickly and nodded.

Remus, finally letting the laughter burst out of him, threw his free hand to his chest. “Oh, isn’t that wonderful! Now, we have no king for you to kill, is that alright? Things just came up before the last coronation, and you know how these things are!” Janus glowered behind Remus and Remus, perhaps seeing Patton’s attention get pulled away, spun around to face his brother. “And you! You brought him here! Tell me, your royal highness-”

Maybe it was just Patton’s eyes fooling him, but he swore Janus’s shoulders were shaking. “Don’t-!”

“Something you’re not telling us? Are we staging some sort of coup? A prince for a prince?” Before Janus could even answer, Remus swung back to look at Patton. “Tell me, Pat, you have siblings?”

Patton, wide eyed, shook his head.

“Great!” Remus exclaimed. “Then we take you and send back Roman!” His eyes now shot to Roman, and Patton felt like he was stuck in a whirlwind. “You can have your shot at being first! Isn’t that great?”

Roman’s shoulders hunched as if he was ready to throw himself at his twin and, just before Patton could consider getting out of the way, Virgil shot up from his seat, and the force sent it clamoring to the ground. 

“Remus! Stop!” 

Remus, moving his eyes from up from Roman to Virgil, raised an eyebrow.

“Janus didn’t even bring him here!” Virgil gestured wildly. “He just… the vines let him through.”

“The vines,” Remus repeated slowly, “Let him through.”

Virgil nodded fervently. “We’re not… doing anything.” He then looked down at Patton and caught his eyes. “He just… showed up.”

For a split second, Remus looked lost for words.

And then the second passed, and he turned his jagged grin back to Janus. “Well, Janus,” he said, “Isn’t this fun?”

“Don’t,” Janus said quietly.

“I’m just saying!” Remus continued and finally yanked his hand free from his brother’s grasp. “Doesn’t that make you wonder?”

“No,” Janus answered coolly.

Remus hummed and tilted his head, observing. “One day I’ll believe you.”

“Make you- make you wonder what?” Patton asked, and was incredibly thankful that his voice didn’t shake.

This time, all eyes in the room were on Janus.

“Nothing.” Janus crossed his arms. “Nothing at all.”

Patton didn’t know if it was just his adrenalin beginning to numb out, but it felt like the room deflated.

“Well… now what?” Roman asked as Virgil righted his chair.

“Yes,” Janus said, staring Patton down. “Now what?”

Patton worried his bottom lip but forced himself to not break Janus’s gaze.

He couldn’t name what it was, but something was telling him that he couldn’t just walk away from this. Not even like he was being threatened (though it seemed like those cards weren’t exactly off the table), but like… something deep within him was keeping his feet planted where they were.

Like… like his subconscious was telling him that whatever he was looking for was in these cold castle walls.

“I wouldn’t be in the way,” Patton whispered.

Janus’s eyebrows furrowed. “What?”

Patton cleared his throat and spoke up, “I- I know you’re probably not gonna let me just… walk out of here.” He waited long enough for a confirmation and, instead, was given four pairs of eyes staring at him. He swallowed, nodded, and continued. “But I- if you’ll… have me, I can stay here.”

Virgil huffed, shaking his head. “We can’t- you can’t seriously be thinking about staying, right? We- we don’t even have food!” 

Remus signed. “If only there was someone who knew the forest and where to find things,” he said, pouting. Then, after a beat of silence, he grinned. “Oh, wait! I do!”

“And we’re supposed to trust-” Virgil started, a growl low in his throat, and Janus, putting a hand up, silenced him.

“You do remember that you are a prince, yes?” Janus asked. “I find it very hard to believe that the Hartt kingdom just let their only prince walk into the woods.”

“No, they wouldn’t,” Patton said, nodding. “But- but they don’t even know I left.”

Janus scoffed. “And when they do find out?”

Patton hesitated before shrugging. He didn’t even think he would get this far. “They’ve never been able to get in here before. Maybe they won’t even think to try again.”

“Oh, yes,” Remus laughed, “I’m sure the evil kingdom in the woods isn’t suspicious at all.”

Janus, as if he didn’t even hear his brother, studied Patton closely.

“Patton Hartt,” he finally said, cocking his head, “What aren’t you telling us?”

Patton laughed half-heartedly. “Do I have to be hiding something?”

“I find that most people are.”

Patton swallowed thickly. “Oh,” he whispered. “Right, well, uh…” He darted a quick look to Virgil before back to Janus. “I just… we have our legends. In the Hartt Kingdom.” He forced himself to not pick at his cuticles, to not adjust his clothes, to just keep looking forward. “I… I don’t think that you four are that bad. You can’t be that bad.”

Janus smirked. “Oh, can’t we?”

“Well, maybe-” And he weakly laughed again, shrugging “-But none of you have killed me yet. I’ve lasted longer than all legends say I would have.”

With that, the room fell silent and, together, the three younger brothers turned to their eldest.

And Janus, in turn, kept his eye on Patton. He kept his eye on Patton for a long time and, in what felt like a miracle, Patton did not falter.

“A prince makes his way into the realm of the monsters,” Janus mused, never breaking his line of sight, “And thinks he’ll find good.” He raised an eyebrow. “Really makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

“I- I-” Patton tried weakly before, unable to find his words, giving up. 

“Very well,” Janus continued, surveying the room. “It seems we have to prepare the castle for a guest.”

“Are you sure about this?” Virgil asked. 

Patton would’ve thought he was asking Janus until he realized that Virgil’s dark eyes were trained on him. “Oh, uh…” He swallowed and nodded. “I am.”

Roman turned to him as well. “If you think he-” And he pointed to Janus “-is going to do something to you if you try to leave, he’s not. I wouldn’t let him.” Virgil, loudly cleared his throat and Roman huffed. “We wouldn’t let him.”

“I- I’m being serious,” Patton assured, looking between all four of them. “I mean, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little… scared, but…” He sighed and shook his head. “I mean it when I say that you guys haven’t done anything to me! Janus could’ve killed me outside. Any of you could’ve killed me in here-”

“You can just say me,” Remus interrupted, shrugging. “I won’t take it to heart.”

“-But none of you did!” Patton continued, trying very hard to ignore that.

Roman eyed Remus warily. “I mean-”

Virgil coughed loudly and kicked Roman’s chair.

“Well, if you all are done,” Janus finally said, eyeing his three brothers. “I have things to attend to. I expect you will all… behave?”

“Just as our guest said,” Remus said with a smirk, “We haven’t done anything yet!”

Janus rolled his eye. “Well he also seems to have low standards for good company.” And, with that, he turned his gaze to Patton. “And I expect the same from you.”

Patton nodded quickly. “Of- Of course.”

“And I suggest listening well when I say this,” Janus continued. “If you show any sign of betraying this… trust we’re showing you, I have no qualms against making the first move.”

“Janus, really?” Virgil asked.

“Yes, really,” Janus pushed. “I think we have just as much of a right to be distrustful as he does.”

“I- I won’t do anything to hurt you,” Patton promised, quietly.

Janus nodded. “Then we won’t have any issues, should we?”

And, with that, Janus turned on his heel and stalked down the hall.

“Wow!” Remus mocked while they listened to his shoes tap up the stairs. “Why doesn’t Janus welcome guests more often?”

“I can name a few reasons,” Roman muttered under his breath.

“It seems like he just wants you guys to be safe,” Patton said.

Roman, humorlessly, laughed. “I think he wants to keep his castle safe.”

“Roman,” Virgil warned.

Roman waved his hand dismissively. “I know, I know. Have to show our good side.” He flashed a wink at Patton. “Luckily, I have many.”

Virgil and Remus rolled their eyes.

“Well, I think I’m done with this conversation,” Virgil said. Standing up, he looked down at Patton. “Should I show you where you’ll be… staying?”

“Is it a coffin?” Patton asked quietly. “I- I heard that there’s coffins involved.”

Roman snorted and covered it with a cough while Virgil, stifling a smile himself, raised an eyebrow.

“Only if you piss Janus off!” Remus said with a grin.

“Ignoring that,” Virgil said, “They tell you we sleep in coffins?”

Patton blushed and couldn’t help but let a laugh escape. “I mean because- oh, this feels mean!”

“We know that we’re the undead, Patton,” Virgil said. “You’re not gonna surprise us.”

“But no, we do not sleep in coffins,” Roman said. “I wouldn’t be caught dead in a- well, I mean, I would.”

“And you are,” Remus added. “Dead, that is.”

Virgil, running his hands over his face, huffed. “You two are idiots,” he mumbled before looking back at Patton. “You should probably, I don’t know, get a tour?” He eyed his two brothers, assessing quickly. “I’ll do it.”

“Suit yourself,” Roman and Remus said before both shifting and eyeing each other.

“Great,” Virgil, monotone, said. Then, gesturing at the hall, “After you?”

“Oh, oh! Yes, thank you,” Patton said, flashing Virgil a smile and standing up. As he was leaving, he looked back over his shoulder at Roman and Remus. “It- it was nice meeting you two!”

Roman beamed. “It’s so lovely to see a person with manners around here!”

“Maybe you can finally learn some,” Virgil said, following Patton out.

As they reached the parlor room, Patton turned to Virgil. “They seem nice!”

Virgil scoffed. “You don’t have to flatter them that much,” he said, leaning against the bannister. He then pointed down the hallway they just came from. “Obviously, that’s the dining hall. Unused but… guess that’s changing?” He then gestured down a hallway behind him that ran parallel to the staircase. “All the way at the end is the throne room. Also unused.”

Patton nodded. Looking down the hall, through the darkness, he could just make out two large, heavy doors.

“And then,” Virgil continued, “Though I doubt you can see it from here, so fucking dark, but right before the throne room, there’s another hall that leads to the sitting room. Decently used.” He then pointed up. “There are four other floors.”

“Well,” Patton said, smiling, “We should get started!”

“I-” Virgil stammered, “I guess we should.”

As they travelled upwards, their shoes clicking against the stone, Patton couldn’t help but marvel. The black stonework stretched up to the high ceilings, still met by dark wood flooring, but, as Virgil switched on lamps as they went, the inherent chill of the darkness was sucked out by the warmth the orange glow gave. Even when paired with the windows, closed off by the curtains drawn over them, the castle felt… open. 

And, once again, Patton was purely amazed at where he had found himself.

“Alright, so,” Virgil said, snapping Patton out of whatever trance he fell into. He pointed to a set of double doors down at the far end of the hall to their right. “Our father’s room. No one… goes in there.” Patton slowly nodded, worrying his bottom lip, and Virgil pointed down the hall to their left. “Down there is Janus’s room and study. Basically no one is allowed in there. At least not without his say-so.”

“Why?” Patton asked, peering down the hall. He caught sight of two more shut doors..

“He’s always been like that,” Virgil murmured, staring down the hall, too. “He doesn’t like people… messing with his stuff, I guess.”

“Oh,” Patton said, quietly.

“Anyways, though,” Virgil said, and began to make his way up the second flight of stairs, “Just don’t mess with his shit and you’ll be fine.”

Patton followed him. “O-Okay!”

The third floor had a similar layout to the second, this time housing Virgil’s, Roman’s, and Remus’s rooms, and a study for each.

“Though honestly,” Virgil said, “The studies aren’t used very much.”

“And are your rooms also off limits?” Patton asked.

Virgil shrugged. “Roman would probably let you poke around,” he explained. “Remus definitely doesn’t like people touching his stuff. And I… I mean, if you knock-”

“Don’t worry,” Patton said, smiling. “I have good manners.”

Virgil huffed out a laugh. “Apparently so.”

The fourth floor housed the guest rooms. In comparison to the rest of the castle, which seemed to be stocked with darker woods and deep colors to match the castle itself, the guest rooms held more neutral tones.

“Our aesthetic could be foreboding even before… everything,” Virgil explained.

“I like it,” Patton said. “It’s different!”

It was the final floor, though, that actually had Patton lost for words.

To call it a library would have been… an understatement.

It was perhaps the smallest part of the castle, leaving Patton to assume that they were up in the spire, but the sheer openness of the single room did enough. Tall bookshelves filled to the brim lined the walls, and in the gaps were portraits: the royal family, the brothers when they were younger, landscapes of what must have been the surrounding area at one point. Well-worn chairs, both cushion and wooden, were pushed into desks and end-tables (all of which were stacked with papers and books, game pieces and cards). And, as Virgil flicked on the oil lamps, what caught Patton’s eyes most were the large, arched sunroofs adorning the spire. They were blocked with tree branches now, but he could just imagine the light they once let in.

“Wow,” Patton breathed.

“Yeah,” Virgil said, looking up as well. “It, uh… it used to be really pretty.”

“I think this whole room is pretty!” Patton looked back down at the library around him. “It’s… we have a library back at my castle. It’s not this lived in.”

Virgil shrugged, though Patton still saw the hint of a smile on his lips. “Well, we need stuff to pass the time around here.” He blew his hair out of his eyes. “You can come up here whenever.”

Patton grinned, looking one last time at the room around him.

When Virgil led him back down to the guest wing, he pushed open the door farthest down the hall. “Rumor has it,” he said, “This was the best room.”

The room was simple yet comfortable, the dark walls and flooring brightened with white and cream furniture. A canopy bed was pushed against the wall, the curtains drawn around it, with end tables on either side. A writing desk was situated against a window (still curtained, but this time with white instead of the typical dark reds Patton had seen before). Virgil motioned to the armoire and the closets. “We actually do have extra clothes. Roman’s pretty good at keeping that kind of stuff maintained.”

“It’s a nice room,” Patton said. 

“Yeah, we tried to, uh, liven it up,” Virgil said. “As ironic as that now sounds.”

Patton just managed to hold back a laugh.

“Well-” And Virgil turned on his heel “-I’ll… leave you to get comfortable.” 

“Thanks, Virgil,” Patton said, already examining the little knick-knacks left on the desk.

It was when Patton never heard Virgil leave, though, that he looked over his shoulder.

“Virgil?” Patton questioned as Virgil, back to him, kept his hand on the doorknob without ever turning it.

“You know you don’t have to do this, right?” 

Patton furrowed his eyebrows as Virgil turned to face him again. “Do what?”

“This.” Virgil gestured around the guest room. “Stay here. I- I can get you out.”

“I don’t- But the vines?”

Virgil sighed. “It’s complicated,” he said. “Honestly? Don’t know what I can and cannot tell you! But- you said the vines let you in? I can get them to let you out.”

Patton hesitated for a moment, quickly eyeing Virgil’s… worried expression, before shaking his head. “I- I don’t want you to.”

Virgil, laughing dryly, said, “Listen, I don’t know you, you don’t know me, but you don’t have to lie to me. You can say that you’re scared shitless and I can get you out of here without anyone else even knowing!”

“I’m not- I’m not lying!” Patton defended.

Virgil watched him, watched him keep his feet planted on his side of the room, and shrugged. “I just- I can’t understand why you would come here, let alone why you would stay here.”

“Because…” Patton trailed off, shrugging. “I need to know…”

Virgil let his head lean back and knock against the door. “Yeah, I know,” he said. “But… what if we are just as bad as everything you’ve heard?”

“And what if you aren’t?”

“But-” Virgil shook his head again “-You can’t uproot your entire life based on a- a hope? A fantasy?”

“It’s not a-!” Patton cut himself off and instead chose to cross his arms. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Maybe not!” Virgil threw up his hands. “But I don’t know if you do, either. You’re in the kingdom of monsters right now. We’re- whatever princes we once were, they died a hundred years ago! All that’s left is whatever things we’ve become!”

“Well, if you’re so sure that I can’t trust you-” And even Patton himself wasn’t quite sure what he was doing when he opened his arms “-Prove it.”

Virgil faltered. “What?”

“If you’re going to hurt me,” Patton said, “Now’s your chance.”

Virgil gaped at him, and did not move an inch.

Patton dropped his arms and shrugged. “There you have it.”

Virgil was silent. He was silent for a long time, actually; enough time to make Patton consider turning back to the room he was in.

But, finally, Virgil said, quietly, “This isn’t a fairytale you hear at your castle, Patton. Whatever you’re trying to find… there’s nothing good here.”

“And I don’t believe you,” Patton said. 

“I can’t tell if you’re too good of a person, or just too naive.”

“I know what the legends say about this place,” Patton said. “And, sure, I’m a bit spooked. I won’t lie about that. But… I just like to give people the benefit of the doubt.”

“Shit.” Virgil dragged a hand through his hair. “Why would a person like you even leave your kingdom? You could- could talk your way out of any fucking war.”

This time, it was Patton’s turn to stay silent.

When Virgil took the hint that Patton wasn’t going to answer, he sighed and shoved his hands in the pockets of his pants. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t be so… whatever this is. Paranoid or intense or whatever.” He shrugged. “Listen, I… I know what you said. And you’re right. We’ve all had chances to… do shit. And we didn’t. But we’re still what we are. I’m just… anxious that you really don’t know what you’re getting into.”

“Maybe not,” Patton said. “But… I want to know.”

Virgil stared at him in disbelief. “I’ll say one thing, you make for interesting company.”

Patton smiled. “I try my best.”

Virgil laughed slightly and, when he turned to actually leave this time, Patton spoke up again, “And, Virgil?”

Looking over his shoulder, Virgil raised an eyebrow.

“Thanks. For showing me around,” he said. “And for the concern.”

Virgil, seemingly caught off guard, cleared his throat and smiled sheepishly, his fangs just poking out. “Uh, no- no problem.”

And the door closed behind him softly.

[delicrieux]

I recently rewatched some of the Harry Potter movies and I've been craving some reader insert stuff for the fandom ;v; Perhaps something HP-related where reader is locked in somewhere with the character(s) of your choice?

since it’s quarantine im re-reading the harry potter books and oh my god im in love with george

requests are open! | masterlist

It is too easy to forget just how playful Hogwarts actually is. It might appear all dust and studying, but at heart the castle, embedded with magic, is more mischievous than half the students attending. Secret rooms and passageways are fun and useful and you have laughed loudly often at your peers who, unknowingly, stumbled into a trap — mostly set up by you, for the sake of humour. It was quite funny until you were stuck in one of said rooms, unable to leave.

It was George’s idea. He had lured you out with promises of dungbombs and portable swamps and all other goodies for some old fashioned pranks. Your misplaced trust had locked you into a small never used classroom with dust coating every inch and corner in white. Though, you suppose it could be worse. Misery loves company, and you absolutely adore that George himself has to share your fate with you.

“Did you—“ You speak up, annoyance slipping past your calm tone, ���—Tell anyone where you were going? Anyone at all?” You glance at him. He stands next to you, arms crossed over his chest, staring at the wall where the door was swallowed by murky green wallpaper.

“Well…” He trails off, thinking and re-thinking his answers, threading carefully, awfully mindful of your squinted eyes and clenched jaw. He’s not an idiot, you’ll give him that. “I…might’ve mentioned it to Fred.”

“Might’ve?” You stress, frowning.

He shrugs, turning to you with a loopy smile, “Okay, I had mentioned it to Fred. But he’s not coming.”

“Why?”

He falters a bit, his jovial exterior softening for but a moment before he’s back to his smug, humorous self, “He thinks we’re on a date.”

You stare at him, “Oh, Merlin, I hope not.” He fakes being offended by your words, landing a hand on his heart with a surprised expression. You look around, “Bit of a lame date that’d be.” You mutter, “I mean… Here’s quite dirty. I’d prefer The Three Broomsticks, to be honest. Take me there next time.”

He hums, “Noted. Should we go once we leave here?”

“We might not leave until morning.” You state sharply, “We might stay locked here forever.”

“Guess we’ll have to go on dates and get married here, then.”

Your heart skips a beat, even if he is joking. Suddenly you are thankful for the dim lighting, because your cheeks are frying.

“Can you imagine that?” You say with a nervous laugh, “ Well, I suppose we could clean. And summon food from the kitchens.” An idea pops to mind, “You recon the elves would help us?”

He shrugs, “We could try. How do you call on an elf, anyway?”

“Here elfy-elfy-elfy?”

Nothing happens. George snorts.

“Have a better idea, don’t you?” You squeeze past your teeth.

Taking out his wand with a cocky grin, he points at a random corner, swirling his wand in elegant motions and in a boisterous voice saying “Elfus Apparus!”

The classroom flashes with blue-white light as loud bang echoes and makes you jerk. With a yelp you grasp his hand, staring at the flying sparks and hissing fumes and then glancing at him only to see him just as surprised at you.

On one of the white coated tables stands a grimy figure of a house elf — hunched, bony, with a dirtied apron and shirt, large glass eyes. It stares at you, unmoving, waiting for an order. Your mouth falls open yet no sound comes out. George, still ogling the creature, nudges you softly to speak up. You jerk.

Clearing your throat, you say, “H-hello, uh— mister house elf. We would, uhm, like to leave this classroom. If that’s okay.”

George nods vigorously. You have never been so polite in your entire life, and he has never been so quiet.

The elf raises his hand and snaps his fingers. A crunch behind you — something emerging from the walls — and it bows his head before vanishing into smoke. You turn to find the door, solid as ever, back in its rightful place and with a shaky hand pull it open.

A familiar, empty corridor greets you. You smile a little to yourself, the tension easing out your shoulders. You emerge still holding George’s hand, fingers intertwined, still a bit shaky. The door shuts and melts into the wall again once you’re both safely out.

“Can’t believe that actually worked.” You mumble.

“Of course it worked. I’m bloody good at spell casting, aren’t I?” He grins, “But besides that…The Three Broomsticks, huh?”

You stare at him, “Now?”

“Why not? It’s a school night.”

On normal occasions, the fact that you have classes tomorrow would have swayed you to stay in the castle and do your homework. That and it being probably around 10 p. m. Alas, you have never said no to breaking the rules, and despite him maybe leading you to another trap again, you squeeze his hand and smile.

“Lead the way.”

.

hope you liked it! xx

.

[keeponshouting]

After Infection

This is a rewrite and hopefully eventual completion of a massive multiverse mash-up of my OCs with a couple belonging to @whenromancesmoked and a few others from back in the day. I have absolutely no idea if anyone else is going to be interested in reading this (ok, I know a few people who will probably read it) but psh. I’m having fun and want to share.

Note: This is also a George Romero tribute of sorts. Like I started it for giggles because my PB for one of the characters was in the Dawn of the Dead remake and it just snowballed, which I guess means I should throw a WARNING: ZOMBIES sign up here or something. Anyway!

After Infection: Dawn of the Dead

It had seemed like a good idea at the time – or, well, more accurately, it had seemed like the right thing to do. There was a request from fellow hunters in a small town a few hours’ drive south and things had been quiet lately back home so Nate had figured that they could spare the time and energy. Besides, Dennis had been going pretty stir crazy for a while. Even if it was a hunt, it would be a good excuse to get out on the road for a while, a sort of vacation.

It had not turned out even remotely like a vacation.

They had been a little too late to the original party but apparently just in time for things to get much, much worse. Nate had brought a variety of tools just in case but he had primarily been prepared for an infestation of what locals called “hell rats,” a creature that was pretty common in the south and usually pretty easy to handle if you found their nests quickly enough. Sure they were venomous but as long as you were careful… He had not been expecting an infestation of zombies.

“The lot looks pretty clear right now.” Dennis is hunched over at the door, using the peephole to take a quick survey of the goings on outside their hotel room while Nate brews a second pot of coffee to get him through whatever the morning brings. After all, as long as decent coffee is available, he might as well take advantage of it. Lord knows he might have to go without for a while and God help his poor boyfriend’s patience if that happens.

When Dennis stands up straight again, his head is just about even with the top of the doorframe and he yawns as he leans back against the door, arms crossed over his chest. “So, come up with any plans yet or are we still waiting for the caffeine to kick in?”

Nate snorts into his cup and foregoes actually taking a drink for the moment in order to respond. “You ask that like I have any idea what sort of plan to use here. I’ve met exactly zero hunters who’ve actually had to handle zombies in the past decade at least. I honestly don’t think they’ve ever been a problem this far north before.”

“Well, there sure are a lot around here for something that’s never been a problem.”

“Some forms of infection can spread at an exponential rate in populated areas.” He drains a good half of the coffee in hand. “Our best bet is probably just to find out if there are any other non-infected people anywhere around here.”

Dennis flops across the bed, face down, with a muffled grunt.

Nate just silently continues drinking as the percolator finally finishes beside him and he very seriously considers making a third pot, just in case.

---

Zombies – shambling, groaning, flesh-eating, nearly Hollywood perfect zombies. For fuck’s sake. This should have been such an easy fucking job and now there are zombies.

Viktor strings together another line of curses, voice little more than a low growl, as he chambers another cartridge. Beside him, a terrified little girl whimpers. He simply scowls, sets Glock number one aside, lights a cigarette, and pulls out number two. “Zatraceně zasraný vědci.” Leaning over toward the window, he catches sight of a proper target and empties the last bullet into the back of its skull. What a fucking cliché.

This was supposed to be simple. They had agreed on that fact the moment that the specifications of the job had crossed the table. It should have been routine, easy money. Three towns, three targets, each plan the same; get rid of the scientist, call their employer, and let the clean-up crew come in and deal with the rest. The first two hits had gone off without a hitch. So, of course, it just figures that last one would have to be so much more complicated than it should have been.

“I—I—I w-want m-m-my d-da—daddy.”

Viktor’s jaw clenches as he exhales – slow and even, two thin streams of smoke – as he reloads the gun in hand and wills himself to remain calm. His patience is wearing thin at this point, though. He had not planned for going into this as usual and coming out as a babysitter. The target’s five-year-old daughter was not supposed to be in the house at the time of the hit. She only stayed with him on the weekends. What an absolutely brilliant turn of events that this was apparently the first Monday that she had ever spent with her father.

Dropping his half-smoked cigarette on the floor, he shoves himself up to his feet. He had lost contact with Miguel some time earlier, likely as a result of the scientist’s neighbor backing into an electric pole at full speed after one of the zombies had rushed her car. The impact had cut power to the entire neighborhood and he can only assume that it must be the cause of the interference. With long-range communication down, that leaves only one alternative: he needs to get within the functional range of their radios. Unfortunately, the hit had been planned for the late evening and he had only been able to make it as far as a vacant apartment building a couple blocks away before night had started to set. From here, short-wave does him about as much good as a water pistol.

“Come on.” Viktor has already reached the door and taken quick stock of the corridor beyond by the time he bothers to look back. Unsurprisingly, his unwanted charge remains unmoved, still curled up as small as she can possibly make herself, which is pretty damned small.

“A-are you g-g-gonna take me b-back to da-daddy?”

God give him strength but that stuttering is getting real old real quick. “Ne.” He swings the door open as quietly as possible and waits for a moment, listening for any movement outside, before carefully stepping out and making his way to the stairwell. With the knowledge that their escape route is currently free of hostiles, he takes a deep, centering breath and heads back to where he began.

“Look, holčička.” He crouches down in front of the child and tries to sound as reasonable as possible. Given his current level of frustration, he thinks that he is doing a fairly decent job. Miguel, however, would likely disagree. “Either you just come with me and go wherever I go, quietly and without complaint, or I leave you here. Your choice.” Yeah, Miguel would definitely disagree.

From the way that the little girl’s eyes go so much wider than he would have ever imagined possible, he feels safe in assuming that she disagrees as well and, five minutes later, they are creeping down an alleyway with more stealth than Viktor ever would have expected of a kindergartener.

---

What was taking so long?

That is the question that had led Alex out of the band’s bus and that was the question that he now wants to keep from crossing anyone else’s minds. This is all way too fucked up, like the should not be real kind of fucked up. None of this should be happening.

On the ground, backed up against the flat tire of the car that their driver had originally gone to help, Alex kicks hard into the jaw of what may have once been a perfectly lovely young woman and sends her sprawling backward where she lands on top of the monster still gnawing on the corpse of a man who should have still been living and breathing and driving their goddamn bus. Alex’s hand gropes around behind him for anything even remotely useful as a weapon and lands on the tire-iron just in time to smash it into the face of the dead woman once more lunging in his direction. Another strike as she tries to get up and he cringes and almost loses his lunch at the feeling of her skull cracking open and her brain splattering across the pavement. Hell, he really might have lost it if not for the howl coming at him far too fast. This time, he opts not to look as the hears the wet crunch and just leaps to his feet and starts running back toward relative safety.

“Alex?”

Oh fuck. “Stay on the bus, Val!”

“Don’t you fucking tell me what to do, Niccols! What the fuck is going—”

Alex fails to hear the rest as he spins around to slam the tire-iron as hard as he can into something else behind him. This time it gets yanked right out of his hand as the body drops and he scrambles back onto the bus, practically picking up a protesting Val in order to get her out of the way of the door that he immediately slams closed. He lets her go as he collapses into the driver’s seat, wide-eyed and hands shaking, and it takes him a moment to register the sound of his dog whimpering by his knee, let alone that of his own name. When the world comes back into focus, though, Val is staring at him in horror. It takes him another moment to realize why.

“Alex? What the fuck happened?” Whether she sounds more panicked or angry, Alex is far too dazed to tell. Her hands reach for his face, his shoulders, moving down to check every inch. “Are you okay?”

Taking a deep breath, he raises a hand to wipe at his face. No. No he is not okay. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

Val does not look like she believes him at all. “Is that—Fuck. That—That’s blood! Why the fuck are you covered in blood?”

Breathe, Alex. Always a good plan to breathe. “Shh. Don’t…” Never mind. Telling her to keep it quiet is pointless. Everybody else will have heard it already.

He shoves himself back to his feet, legs weak and wobbly, and stumbles as he makes his way through the curtain that separates the cabin from the rest of the bus. It is instantly evident that the rest of the band did, in fact, hear all of that. All three of them are already staring at him before he even properly steps into view. He is pretty sure that Sasha is the one choke out an “on shit” and it is definitely Macy whose response comes out as barely a squeak.

“Blood?” On his feet now, Macy rushes in to cling to Alex’s shirt, bodily fluids not withstanding. “None of it’s yours, right? You’re not hurt? You’re okay?”

Again, Alex reminds himself to breathe, turning just enough so that he can see where Val still stands in the doorway, Parker lying on the floor a foot or so behind her, his ears back and expression scared. For her part, Val is gripping the doorway so tightly that Alex can only assume that she is trying very hard not move and crowd him any further.

“None of it’s mine.” He looks at the faces around him, all of them staring, all confused and various degrees of frightened. It brings everything right back into focus. “We need to—” It takes a deep breath in and a slow breath out to get his thoughts back in line. “Everybody grab a bag, pack food, necessities, just—just whatever.” Stepping a little closer to Val, just near enough to pull one of her hands down from the wall and give it a quick squeeze. “We gotta get outta here.”

---

Nate leans out of the passenger side window just far enough to level his sights on one of the creatures that already looks less human and fires. One shot, between the eyes, and it hits the ground and disappears beneath the feet of its companions. He hears a quiet gagging sound come from the driver’s seat and finds himself feeling a bit queasy in turn. They are both going to need to make some real changes to their perspective re: what constitutes a monster and they need to make those changes really quickly because as of right now, it is going to be really difficult to get out of this mess without completely rewiring their conscience.

“Um, Nate?”

With barely a glance spared toward Dennis, Nate focuses himself on reloading. “Yeah?”

“How many, uh—how many of them are back there?”

The question gives him pause but Nate squints to get a count anyway. “About a dozen in view. Why?”

“Because we need to, uh—we have to stop for a minute.”

Nate drops back into his seat so quickly that he nearly smacks his head off the door. “We what?”

Not even bothering to look at him, Dennis simply peels one shaking hand off of the steering wheel to point at something ahead. “We have to stop.”

Nate has to squint but he starts moving the moment that he sees exactly what Dennis is looking at. “I’ve got the door.”

It was rather obvious even from a single glance at a decent distance that the man up ahead, standing stock still in his torn slacks and a blood, rolled shirt-sleeves, was staring straight past the car speeding toward him and cursing the sight of the ever-growing number of zombies trailing behind. Dennis hits the gas and is slamming the breaks in what feels like no time.

Nate shoves the back door open and feels like there is really no room for argument when he shouts to the man to get in but he has been wrong before and apparently he is right now. Instead of heading straight for them, the guy curses in a language that they are now close enough for Nate to tell is definitely not English and turns away.

“Hey!” Dennis spins in his seat to look behind them, which Nate is sure that he immediately regrets. “What the hell? What’s he doing?”

“I don’t know. He’s just—” And that is when the stranger pulls his gun, takes out three approaching zombies in relatively rapid succession, and finally turns to sprint back toward the car. “—getting a little girl.”

The child is practically flung into the back seat and their new passenger wastes no time slamming the door behind himself and snapping, “Go. Now.”

Dennis really does not need to be told and floors it the second he knows the door is closed.

“Take a left onto Carver,” the man continues, his tone speaking volumes regarding how unwilling he would be to hear any question or protest. “Follow signs for the mall plaza.” He leans out the window to pick off a few more of the monsters before Nate’s slightly incredulous look catches his attention and his scowl is honestly pretty terrifying. “You’ll be out of gas before the edge of town so, under the assumption that you wish to live—”

Nate’s eyes narrow in suspicion but Dennis has absolutely no qualms against following the orders of anyone with a plan right now and practically takes the aforementioned turn on two wheels when he nearly misses it.

---

“Are you sure you can hotwire this piece of shit?”

“It’s not a piece of shit, it’s a fucking classic.”

Val rolls her eyes at that as she continues trying to calm the utterly panicked Macy currently clinging to her so tightly that he might as well just climb into her goddamn skin. “Fine. Can you really hotwire this ‘fucking classic’?”

Two seconds later, the engine revs up as Alex sits back in the driver’s seat with a trin and a waggle of his stupid eyebrows. Sasha squeals in relief and flings her arms around him from her place in the back seat, as he laughs. “My mechanical genius is wasted on this red wire green wire bullshit.”

He pops the trunk just as something begins to stir inside of the nearby diner and Val shoves Sasha aside to squeeze Macy in so that she can help Nico load their bags at record speed. By the time she flings herself into the front passenger seat, there are already zombies starting to stumble out of the woodwork. Fuck seatbelts. “Gun it!”

Alex hits the gas and they peel out of the parking lot just as the diner’s doors give way.

He had tried to explain what had happened while they packed. It had felt impossible for Val to actually wrap her mind around it at first but once she had seen the mess outside? She had practically dragged Alex and Macy off in search of the nearest source of potential transportation. They needed to find something quickly and it needed to be something fast and she needed to not think about how painfully familiar the blood and gore looked, though she had only ever seen anything like it in her nightmares. When Alex had needed to stop and vomit into the nearest garbage can, she had a feeling that she understood why and a little pocket of rage flared to life in her chest – not because he had to stop but because he never should have been the one to wind up with someone else’s blood on his hands.

“Where are we going?” Macy is the one to finally ask, almost inaudible from where he has curled up against Sasha now, and Val catches his eye in the rearview mirror before she looks toward Alex.

Alex, however, is entirely too focused on driving to really think but so much and instead catches her eye before clearing his throat. “Nick?”

In the back, Nico turns away from the horrors outside of his window. “What?”

“How do you defend yourself against a zombie invasion?”

“Wha—Zombies aren’t exactly my specialty here.”

“No,” Alex agrees, “but zombies are supposed to be a helluva lot dumber than, say, Reavers, right? You know Reavers.”

“So?”

“So how would you defend yourself against an invasion of retarded Reavers?”

The drummer just stares at him for a moment with an expression that plainly says that he may consider that to be the dumbest question that he has ever heard. Eventually, thought, there is an answer. “I’d find the most well-stocked, easily-fortifiable location I could think of and hope I could wait out the attack or find some other way to get through them.”

There is silence in the car and then Alex shrugs. “All right. So, where’s the most well-stocked and easily-fortifiable location we can think of?

Five minutes later, they find themselves screeching into the parking lot of the local mall. The location almost seems somehow normal, given the situation at hand. In fact, were it not for the shrieking horde behind them or the knowledge that Alex is currently doing seventy into a public lot, it might almost feel a little reminiscent of home. Val almost finds it funny, really. What’s funnier to her than coming to a mall for safety, however, is the fact that they were obviously not the only ones with that idea, as they are definitely not the only ones pulling into the place with a bunch of undead goons straggling along behind them.

---

“Miguel.”

There is a burst of static in his ear as Viktor leans out to empty his 22 into the crowd of creatures still chasing behind the car that had picked him up on the highway. Once within range, he takes out a couple of the ones latching on to the other car that had pulled in to the lot at about the same time, too. When his magazine clicks empty, he makes a snap decision to save his 20 for later and drops back into the seat to reload. The driver glances at him in the rearview, looking a little bit frightened, while the original passenger only eyes him for a moment before leaning out of the other side with a freshly loaded shotgun. His fellow gunner might not be terribly trusting but at least Viktor can respect that. Besides, who needs trust? The guy’s a fairly good shot.

“Zatratím tě, Miguel!” The little girl still curled up beside him whimpers. He can hear it over the gunfire, the static, all of the goddamned zombies. It is grating on his very last nerve. “Odpovídáš mě!”

He could hope for no better response than to lean back out just in time to watch as a line of four hostiles drops one by one.

“En ingles, ’mano.” Another line of undead hit the ground as the line sputters out then clears up again, leaving room for easily the most welcome voice he has ever known. “Now where the Hell have you been?”

Viktor nearly laughs. “We can trade stories later, miláčku. Right now, I need cover fire while I try to get these people into the posraný mall.”

“Going shopping?”

“Sklapni. We try the mall or they come to your shop.”

“How many?”

Viktor glances toward the other vehicle still circling around the parking lot with them. “Eight plus me.”

“Well, if they dropped you—”

“Miguel.”

“Sí, sí, the mall sounds like a plan. There’s a garage off to your right. No good angle for me to shoot the lock off but I can keep the number of uglies down while you get in.”

“Děkuji.”

“That means thank you, sí?”

Viktor rolls his eyes. “Sí.”

The line bursts back into static with a laugh.

---

As it turns out, the garage door does not, in fact, require a shot to the lock. It rolls up just enough for the two cars to through before Dennis’s little hatchback even hits the ramp. On the other side, a young woman motions for them to hurry while two men in security uniforms stand to either side of the entrance to help keep the monsters at bay, though it appears that this Miguel guy really only needs the most basic of assistance. His precision is honestly kind of terrifying and Dennis is just as glad not to see any more examples of it as he swerves off to one side so that the other car has room. Nate and their scarier passenger are both out before he even has the damned thing in park, seeing to it that nothing gets in the way of girl at the door to slam the thing shut.

“We saw you on the security cameras,” of the security guards explains as he climbs up to try and jam the gears.

The other car’s driver takes a moment to collect himself, then grabs a wrench and makes his way over to the ladder. “Here. Let me have a look at that.”

“Figured we couldn’t just leave you out there.” The guard climbs down to let the driver up. “Then Shannon said she thought you were headed this way.”

“Thanks.” Dennis finally climbs out only to stretch over the top of his car.

The woman now known as Shannon simply smiles. “No problem. Mercy for your fellow man or something like that.” She laughs and shrugs, looking slightly flustered, though that is probably to be expected, all things considered. “Anyway, come on. Let’s get you all inside. We’ve got food, clothes, relatively comfortable furniture… We’ll get you poor things all cleaned up and sorted out in no time.”

There is a general rumble of agreement as the little group follows her to the door that leads into the connected store, allowing themselves to be ushered toward where another girl is waiting somewhat impatiently. That is, they all follow along aside from one man, anyway, who simply mutters something into his headset before switching it off and making his way back over to the hatchback. Shannon looks back, confused, as does Nate, though he looks more suspicious about it.

Dennis just sighs. “The little girl.” Then he ducks through the doorway and drags Nate away after the rest.

---

“Come on, holčička.” Viktor crouches down beside the open car door with a sigh as the child remains curled up in the center of the back seat. Children. How did anyone actually deal with children, let alone have them by choice?

The little girl simply whimpers and mumbles, “There are monsters out there.”

Well, at least the stuttering has stopped and he supposes he can concede that she has a fair point. “The monsters are outside, not with us.”

Before he can receive a response or think of anything more convincing to say, there is someone else coming up behind him, bending down to look the child in the eye with a painfully sympathetic and all too sugarcoated smile. He might be able to handle the sight of it at any other time but right now, with everything that he has just been through and the way that she has the gall to place one of her hands on his shoulder as if—God, he would really like to wipe that smile off of her face.

“Hi, there,” she says, voice floating in a way that speaks plainly of a familiarity with appeasing people under the age of seven. “I’m Shannon. What’s your name?”

Caught slightly off-guard, the child squeaks. “Um. I—I’m—” The little girl shoots a quick glance toward Viktor then, almost as if asking permission to speak with this new stranger before she finally answers. “I’m Amanda.”

Shannon’s smile becomes even brighter, even sweeter, if that is even possible, and Viktor has to dig his nails into his palms to keep himself from taking out her kneecaps when she leans even further over him, hand squeezing his shoulder. “Amanda? Well, that’s a pretty name! Are you hungry, Amanda?”

The little girl nods.

“Well, we’ve got all sorts of food inside. We’ve got toys, too, and games and books and all sorts of neat stuff.”

“And—and no monsters?”

Shannon laughs. “And no monsters.”

Still curled up in the seat, Amanda chews worriedly at her lip for a moment longer, eyes flashing back and forth between the two adults still there in the door. Shannon keeps smiling, encouraging. Viktor just stays crouched there with a clenched jaw and a headache starting to build behind his eyes. When the girl finally moves, though, it does not go entirely as expected. Rather than reaching for Shannon’s offered hand, she instead launches herself forward to wrap her little arms tight around Viktor’s neck and duck her head in under his chin, completely unaware of the rather undignified look of surprise that he is entirely unable to keep off of his face. Unhelpfully, all Shannon does in response is giggle.

[chappedandfadedvds]

Jan 16th, Saturday 15:16

Jens was actually laughing. 

Genuingly laughing, when Lotte told them some really bad joke she had heard in school. A dumb pun. But it had been the fourth in a row and they had finally reached the breaking point.

He sat at the table, an half emptied plate of apple slices between him and his little sister, while Lies roamed the kitchen to write down a list of groceries to buy on her way home. She planned to visit their mom and it had weighed heavy on her, when she had admitted this to Jens early that morning infront of the bathroom mirror.

Lies had told him, how much it hurt to live so far away and unable to travel and come home. She would have loved to help Jens over the past year, even if it would just have been for a week here and there. It was the reason why she had been so desperate to secure the position to be send to Brussels. 

Not that it been an actual problem, her wokrplace knew very well about her family situation. Still, Lies had said, that the moment she had recieved the plane tickets only a week ago, she had broken down in her boss’s office. 

Lies was here though now, thankful for the opportunity to bid farewell to their mother in person at last.

Jens understood the relief his older sister had explained to him. He couldn’t even entertain the thought of not being able to see his mom, while prohibited to visit inmidst the pandemic.

„Oh, I know! There is this one dish Theo and me always make as comfort food. Quite easy, but really nice in winter, with a good hearty broth. I’m going to do that.“ Lies declared vague from where she stood behind the opened door of the fridge. Mumbling something under her breath, while she noted things down on the piece of paper on the counter next to her.

„I don’t know if I should trust you to actually cook something delicious.“ Jens mocked, reminded of the many times that Lies had simply ordered take-out on every evening she was watching her siblings. Cooking was for loosers, she always had said, and simultaneously implied that she was at an absolute loss in the kitchen.

„Says the person who had managed to let noodles get burned to crisps while boiling them.“ 

„I was ten.“ He defended, cackling when Lies snorted and their gazes met. So much time had passed, but Jens was assured that the loving arguments between them would never cease to exist.

„But Jens is really good now. He makes like a super good riceotto“ Lotte chimed in, the wide smile on her face somewhere between amused and puzzled. She hadn’t much memories of Jens and Lies together, so it was reasonable for her to be unsure why it was funny. Their little sister had been only five when Lies had left. 

She had cried for a whole week, but with time passing, she had stopped even mentioning Lies alltogether. She knew her, yes, but she couldn’t tell what they had done or talked about together any longer. And maybe it was a little sad, Jens thought, but it also meant that Lotte wouldn’t miss Lies as much as Jens sometimes did.

„Risotto.“ Jens corrected, while he leaned a little over to ruffle through her hair. She slapped his hand away, stucking out her tounge at him in jest.

„Well, maybe Jens should cook then. I won’t complain.“

„No way, you are the oldest now, you cook.“ Jens quickly proclaimed his flawless reasoning against the mere suggestion Lies had voiced. His older sister barely contained herself from laughing again, instead nodded along, as she continued to write even more things down. 

Jens knew that she had come with a rented car from the airport, but the list just grew and he wasn’t sure, if he should tell her off. It looked like she wanted to stock the kitchen for an entire month.

The mood turned a little quieter, only Jens’s spotify playlist filled the house with some comfortable noise, while Lotte sketched some abstract scenes on paper. Jens’s eyes flicked over every once in a while, but it appeared like there wasn’t much reason behind it.

He yawned and stretched his arms, a loud cracking sound in his shoulder earned him a gleeful glance from Lies, who he flipped off. Despite it, he felt younger today. He felt lighter. His breathing wasn’t hurting as much, his thoughts came easier. 

Lies and him had talked for hours yesterday. He had forgotten how close they used to be. Which was wierd given their age difference and them not even being the same gender. But somehow they always stuck together. Jens wished she would stay.

The day they had bid goodbye at the airport had been locked somewhere into his head. Even after three years he didn’t dared to touch it.

This all would be easier if he had Lies to live with them. But it wasn’t reality and Lies had made him understand that it was okay to be scared. She had admitted at three in the morning, when they had headed to bed, that it had taken her month to figure out how to live on her own. Especially after she had moved to a different continent, while leaving her family behind. Jens could do this too.

He still had all of his friends around. He had this house. He had Lotte.

He just had to start somewhere.

„I think I’m going to call Lucas.“ Jens suddenly said. For a moment he had considered the possibility that he hadn’t spoken aloud at all. However, it became clear that he had, as both his sister’s heads spun towards him in an instant.

„Really? That came out of nowhere. But good for you. I think you should.“ Lies said, a little startled by his surprising change of demeanour. Only this morning he had still sat depressed and hunched over in pity in front of his breakfast. Jens wasn’t even sure himself where the urge to do it had popped up from.

„Yes!“ Lotte followed up quickly with bright wide eyes. Of course she would be excited.

„Okay. I’m going to do it.“ He declared, more to will his confidence in excistense than aynthing else.

He was nervous. Maybe Lucas wouldn’t even pick up? Jens wasn’t even sure, if Lucas’s mom was still around. This was a bad idea. 

The whole conversation from thursday sprung back into his mind. The hurt in Lucas’s eyes and the anger in his words. All caused by Jens. What if the other boy needed more time? What if he wouldn’t even pick up?

The fear must have shown on his face. Jens was sure, because Lies stood suddenly next to him, to push his phone into view. He had been starring at the surface of the table, unmoving, even when Lotte had come closer too, with a hand resting on his shoulder.

„Come on. Call.“ Lies demanded, despite the gentleness in her voice, it still made him take the phone into his hand.

„Alright.“

„Do you want us to leave?“

Good question, Jens thought, unsure how to answer. But then, he wasn’t planning on having the needed conversation over phone anyway. He was scared that words would get twisted and intentions screwed by the missing connection one had face to face.

So he shook his head.

The phone rang four times. 

Nothing.

He tried again. Just this second time and then he would put it away again.

It merely managed to make a sound, before the call was answered.

„Jens?“

He sat at the table, his breath on hold, as he listened to the boy on the other end. Jens wouldn’t cry from solely his name being spoken by the person he missed so much for only a couple of days now. He wouldn’t.

That was at least what he desperately told himself.

„Jens? Are you there?“

There was worry in the voice and Jens didn’t trust it. He didn’t deserved it. But he was on the phone, he remembered. He had been the one to iniiate the conversation. He should probably say something.

„Hi.“ 

Jesus. His voice had certainly cracked, like some fifteen year old teenanger going through puperty. This was embarrassing. But it also helped. Lucas was definitely snorting on the other end of the call. And the three siblings all fell into laughter, with Lies wheezing at her brother’s pitiful attempt to make things right. His sister’s really tried to keep quiet, but it kind of was in vain. Lucas must have heard them.

It took Jens a solid minute to speak again. 

„Sorry, about that.“

„It’s alright.“ Lucas said as he took an audible deep breath to calm down to continue. The faintest amusement in his voice still there, even if the mood had turned serious again. „I am really glad that you called.“

It was the earnesty that struck Jens the most. It came unexpected. He had planned to force Lucas to hear him out if he had to. In the strong assumption that the younger boy didn’t wanted to talk to him in the first place. Apparently Jens had been wrong. Again. Like so often. It seemed to become a habit.

„I’m glad you picked up.“

„Of course.“ Lucas replied without any hesitation, it made Jens smile a little. It felt so good to hear him again. To hear him at ease. Jens pushed away the intruding thought in his head, that told him that it probably had to do with Jens’s absence. He hated that he somehow could belive it.

„I thought, maybe we can talk?“

There was a brief pause on the other end, as the call fell silent.

„I’d like that. When?“ Lucas asked and Jens noticed that he hadn’t thought that far ahead.

„Uhm, when?“

„Yes, when?“ 

The amusement in the younger boy was back. Jens could imagine Lucas shaking his head at the silly and ungraceful awkwardness Jens presented. There was a hand in his view, that lead him to look up at Lies, who tried to get his attention.

„Tomorrow.“ She whispered, nodding her head quickly, while she pointed a finger to herself. „I can watch Lotte.“

Jens loved Lies so much, it was ridiculous.

„How about tomorrow? I could come over to yours.“

„Okay. Be here at one maybe?“

„Yes, that works.“ He affirmed in a heartbeat. Jens would have agreed to any proposed time. It wouldn’t have mattered as long as he got the chance to talk to Lucas. He had an idea what he wanted to say after last night’s conversation with Lies. He knew that it wouldn’t be perfect or maybe even work in his favour, but it would be a start.

„I’ll see you tomorrow then.“ Lucas said.

„Tomorrow.“

They sat in silence for a moment. Usually Jens would have told him that he loved him. But it didn’t feel right, even when the feelings were clearly there. It felt too much to voice it. They hadn’t broken up yet, but it wasn’t as if they were in a relationship still either. So he simply waited. 

And then there was a clicking sound and the call was ended.

__ __ __ tagged: @odi-et-amo85, @tayspots

[harringrovetrashrat]

I have an idea if you're interested in hearing about it!❤ Some pre relationship angst, I think. Basically Steve is driving home late one night in the pouring rain and hits a disassociating Billy with his car and finds himself trying to help because he's a nice guy. Just an idea, though!

This one stumped me a bit!  Whoever is monitoring my google searches is gonna see a lot of ‘what’s it like to get hit by a car?’, ‘hit by car’, ‘pedestrian hit by car’ and maybe think I did a hit and run, but hey whatever.

I edited the prompt a smidge cuz like,, I didn’t want Billy to get like hit hit with the car, but still like, enough that shit happened??  I def messed around a bit, and this ended up more Steve centric than I thought it would, but hey it is what it is.

Anywhoooo, hope you enjoy! (Fic under the cut)

--

Steve was driving aimlessly, unable to sleep.  Again.  Ever since Star Court, almost a year ago now, and honestly since the tunnels, he’d been fucking haunted any time he closed his eyes.  The sounds of the demodogs, the sound of the Flayer, the fucking smell.  He couldn’t escape it.

So now he drove.  Through Hawkins, around Hawkins, outside of Hawkins, as far as he could go.  Steve just drove.  Tonight, he was driving around town, just watching the shadows.  The windows were down, letting the warm, humid summer air in.  He could turn on his A/C, but it was nice feeling the heat.  Especially after--

Something moved in front of his car and he slammed on the breaks.  He jerked to a stop with a gasped what the fuck, but there was an undeniable, though small, thump.  Then there was a louder thump when the shadow slammed something on the hood of the beamer.

Steve felt like he might throw up.

He got out of the car on shaky legs, his stomach rolling, and made his way to the front.  When he saw what the shadow was, Steve was sure he was hallucinating.

Billy Hargrove stood there, unmoving, unblinking, just staring at where he had his hands placed on the hood of Steve’s car.

“Oh my god what?” Steve breathed, rubbing at his eyes.  Billy didn’t respond, just turned his head and looked at Steve, eyes blank.

The last time he had seen Billy was when he helped bring him home from the hospital.  His father hadn’t offered and, apparently, hadn’t told Max and Susan that Billy was going to be released.  So the hospital had called, Max had picked up, and had then called Steve, all anger and tears.  And, well, Billy had saved them.  Had apparently been really quiet and withdrawn and Max was adamant that he was way less of an asshole.  And he had been, but it was because he wasn’t talking.  He’d grumbled a thanks to Steve, had responded to Max with short and abrupt sentences, but other than that, spent his time looking out the window.  It was weird and had made Steve’s stomach twist.

Billy’s hair was longer now than it had been.  Still short, but it was starting to curl around his ears, all soft and cherubic.  He was still thin and hunched over, taking up as little space as he could.  But his eyes--

His eyes looked empty, almost.  Like he was lost inside himself.

“Billy?” Steve tried, nervous to move closer.  Because the Flayer was gone, they knew that, but Billy was being weird.  Once again, he didn’t respond, just kind of stared at Steve.  They stared at each other for a moment before Steve moved slightly closer.  Billy didn’t react.  “Hey are you okay?” He reached out, touching the back of his palm to Billy’s forehead instinctively.

“Sorry,” Billy said, voice shaky and rough, like he didn’t use it a lot.  Or like he had been yelling.  Steve wasn’t sure if there was a better option between the two.

“What?” Steve shook his head.  “I’m the one who hit you with my car-- Shit are you okay?!” He gave Billy a once over, grabbing at him to feel for soft spots.  Billy let him, body slightly limp.  “Does this hurt?” Steve asked, pressing by Billy’s hip.  Billy shook his head.  “This?” Steve tried again, this time by his ribs.  There were no tears in Billy’s clothes, so he wasn’t even sure where he had been hit.

“Can’t feel it,” Billy murmured, voice flat.  Steve looked up, hands wrapped around Billy’s rib cage.

“Like it’s gone numb or…?”

“Can’t feel anything,” was the response.  Steve pulled away, furrowing his brow.  He wasn’t sure what was happening.

“Do you want me to take you to the hospital?” Billy shook his head.  “Home?” Billy made a strange choking sound and shook his head more aggressively.  It was the most he’d responded to Steve the whole time.  Steve bit his lip, not sure what to do.  “The police?” Billy crumpled a little, using the car to keep himself upright.  Instinctively, Steve reached out to help.  “Whoa!  Okay,” he said, voice tight, “No police.  You can’t stay out here, dude.”

“Nowhere else,” Billy replied.  Something uncomfortable tightened in Steve’s chest.

“We’ll go to my place.” The only response he got was a shrug, which was better than nothing, so Steve helped haul Billy, who was still staring blankly ahead and moving limply, into the car.

As he drove, Steve wondered why Billy was out at this time of night.  It was almost 2 now, and Billy was dressed in flannel pajama pants and a ratty old UC Berkeley sweater.  A look for a night in, not wandering the streets.  Steve’s fingers tapped on his thigh as he drove, wanting to ask questions, but not sure that Billy would answer.  He hadn’t stopped staring out the front window, eyes and face blank, like he was there, physically, but far away mentally.  It was so far away from the Billy Steve had known, he was almost like a different person.  A shell of who he was.

When they arrived at his house, Steve helped Billy out of the car.  Billy seemed to have retreated more into himself, which was kind of the opposite of what Steve was going for, so he did what he did best.  He rambled.

“I should have been paying more attention to the road, but I mean, it’s past midnight in Hawkins.  I didn’t think anyone would be out there.” Billy didn’t respond, just followed Steve inside his house.  “Are you sure you don’t want to go to the hospital?  I hit you with my car, man.  I guess it wasn’t hard since you were still upright but, fuck.” Steve gasped a little for air, the weight of the situation starting to crash on him.  “I’m so sorry,” he wheezed, looking into Billy’s eyes.  Something flickered in Billy’s gaze and his eyes narrowed a little in thought.  “I’m sorry I hit you with my car.  Like, twice now, oh my god.”

“It’s,” Billy paused, looking uncertain, “Okay.” Steve gave him an incredulous look.

“It’s not okay.  It’s not.” Billy didn’t respond to that, looking uncomfortable.  Neither of them spoke, just stood awkwardly in the main hall.

“Am I--” Billy said, voice cutting through the silence, “Am I dreaming?” Steve raised a brow.

“Huh?  No?” Billy’s face crumpled a little and he leaned heavily against Steve’s wall, sliding down to the floor.  “Billy?”

“I know I’m dreaming.  None of this is real.” His voice was stronger now, but still shaky.  Panic formed in Steve’s gut.  He wasn’t a doctor, but this didn’t seem normal.  Didn’t seem right.

“Hey, hey,” Steve said, voice soft and gentle.  “This is real.  I’m right here in front of you.” Billy shook his head and clenched his eyes shut.  “I am,” Steve insisted.

“That’s why it’s not real,” Billy said, voice cracking.  “You’re never around anywhere else.” Steve suddenly felt guilty and confused.  It wasn’t like they had been friends before, but it wasn’t like Steve didn’t also owe his life to Billy.  He could have said thank you, at least.  But it was confusing, the way Billy said it.  Like Steve was often around in his dreams.

He tucked that away for later; the night had been exciting enough.

“I never said it, but thank you, Billy.” Blue eyes locked onto his.  “Those kids wouldn’t be alive without you and you,” he let out a sad laugh, “You didn’t get anything for it.” He slid down next to Billy, not looking at him.  “I’m sorry.  I don’t know what I expected after you recovered.  We didn’t exactly part on good terms.  But I should have come to thank you, regardless.” When he looked at Billy, he was squinting at him, confused.  “What?”

“That’s not what you usually say,” he replied.  He blinked once, twice, then rapidly for a moment, almost like waking up.  For what felt like the first time tonight, he focused on Steve.  “Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“Where are we?” Steve furrowed his brow.

“My house.”

“Why?”

“What-- Why?” Steve spluttered.  Billy watched him carefully before flushing and looking away.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

“Billy?” Steve said, tilting his head.

“I sometimes,” he licked his lips, “The doctors call it, dissociating.” He picked at the frayed sleeve of his hoodie.  “I kind of disconnect from reality for a bit,” he said, stating it like he was reading it off a sheet of paper, memorized in word only.  “Usually when I, well, come back, I don’t remember it.” He shifted and winced, hissing in pain.  “Fuck, why does my leg fucking hurt?” Steve flushed and reached for his pants.  “Harrington?” Billy asked, voice creeping up in pitch.  Steve checked his calf and saw the beginnings of a bruise at the bottom of Billy’s knee.

“I hit you with my car.  You didn’t even feel it?” It made sense, but fuck.

“I don’t always feel things when I’m out of it,” Billy replied, voice tight.  Steve gently touched the bruise around his knee and heard Billy exhale sharply through his nose.

“Does that hurt?” Steve looked up, face drawn together with concern, but Billy didn’t look like he was in pain.  Maybe like he was freaking out a bit.

“You hit me with your car?” Billy asked, his voice still tight and stressed.  He was staring at where Steve still had his hand cupped around his knee.  Steve pulled back with a blush.

“Yeah, uh, you kinda came outta the shadows and I didn’t break quite it time.” He rubbed the back of his head.  “Did, uh, did you want me to call the cops now?  You didn’t earlier when I asked, but I mean obviously--”

“No,” Billy replied sadly with a shake of his head.  “I’ve had worse.  I’ll be fine.  I mean,” he chuckled humorlessly, “What are they gonna do?” Steve furrowed his brow, unable to answer.

“Are you sure?”

“Harrington,” Billy said, voice laced with exhaustion.  “No one is gonna care.  I’m still alive,” and wow did he sound unhappy about that, “So what is there to do?”

“I don’t-- I mean--”

“Lemme get outta your hair.” Billy began to stand, wincing when his movements were stiffer than expected.  Steve helped him up, grabbing his elbow, but didn’t move away and didn’t let go.

“You said you had nowhere else to go,” Steve whispered.  Billy paled and licked his lips.  “Stay.” Unsure ice blue eyes locked onto his and it made Steve’s breath hitch.  Neither of them spoke, just staring into each other’s eyes.

It wasn’t the first time Steve had noticed how beautiful Billy was, how handsome, but it was the first time he’d been almost overwhelmed by it.  Taken in by his eyes, the cut of his jaw, the very small smattering of freckles.  Steve realized he missed seeing them fan across Billy’s nose, skin kissed by the sun.

“Okay,” Billy replied, voice hoarse.  “Okay.”